Daine’s face shuttered at once, and then she remembered that hers wasn’t the only life he’d been exposed to—merely the most recent. “A lot,” he said at last. “I can’t lose my head, but short of that—if I’m given the time, the place and the food—almost anything. Time’s important, though.”
“You’ve tested this.”
“No.”
“Fair enough. Are you willing to?”
“What she means to say—”
“I know what she’s trying to say,” Daine said, before Avandar could finish. “Why me? I can’t see—.”
“You can touch ’em. I don’t know how the healer’s talent works. Hells, I barely understand how the seer’s talent works, and I’ve got that one. But I think you can tell if a person’s—uh, not quite what they should be—just the same way you can tell they’ve got a disease.”
“As long as you don’t expect me to cure it,” he replied.
She’d remember those words later—she knew it the minute she heard them. “Never mind,” she said sharply, some fear forcing the words to form.
“What do you mean never mind?”
“We don’t need you.”
“Look, Jay—if you’re talking about demons—”
“That is quite enough,” Avandar said.
“—and if you’re talking about that Henden, that’s what you’re talking about—”
“Daine, Jewel, I must insist—”
“—then you’ve asked me about it for a very good reason. You can’t just change your mind in the middle of the question!”
“I can change my mind any damned time I please,” she replied, shorter than she’d intended to be.
“No, you can’t, not about this—”
“Avandar Gallais,” another voice said, one that tickled Jewel’s ear, but fell short of the rest of Daine’s sentence, “you’ve been granted royal dispensation to use your magics appropriately; shut them up.”
It was Duvari’s voice. If one of her den hadn’t been questioning her authority, she was certain she’d have died of shock. As it was . . .
“I will assume by that,” the domicis said softly, “that you mean ‘protect them from eavesdroppers.’”
“Very well,” Duvari replied, his voice as friendly as falling stone, “you may assume that. But do it.”
He did not recognize the woman who came by the side of the ATerafin; he did not recognize either of the older men—both dark-haired, both far too deliberate in their movements and the way they casually scanned the crowd to be anything other than dangerous—either. He did not recognize the man who was probably about his own age, but he did recognize the symbol that man wore: Two palms, face up, in a platinum field. Gold hands, and somewhat stylized, but it didn’t matter—the healer-born were known, loved, and perhaps feared a little for their power of refusal, in any kingdom, any country. Even in the South, where they rarely announced their presence by such obvious emblem.
He bowed; he bowed to all of them, mindful of the need now for manners and decorum. It was hard to remember that need when his only company was Commander Sivari and the Ospreys.
“My apologies, Tyr’agar,” the ATerafin said, bowing quite low, “but we have need, at the moment, of your indulgence.”
“Of course,” Valedan replied. “Is there a problem? I’ve heard that the contest will not begin until after the sun’s height.”
“Rumor, in the rare instance, is correct. Please summon your men.”
He nodded, turned, and made a brief statement to Commander Sivari.
The man to Devon ATerafin’s right leaned over and spoke a few words.
“Ah, apologies, Tyr’agar. We do not wish to speak to the men you have on duty; we wish to speak to all of your men.”
“All of them? But they are not all available—”
“All of them. I believe that you are currently protected by the Ospreys. Ask Primus Duarte—is that his name?—to gather them. Tell him that any man who is not here for this inspection will no longer have access to the grounds upon which the Championship is contested.”
“But the—”
“We will wait,” the unknown man said softly. “We have need of the magi before we start.”
“Carlo,” Ser Anton said softly. “Be still.”
“What game are they playing?” Carlo said in return. It was not a reply, but it was as much of a reply as the young man was capable of. Indeed these words, or a variant thereof, had been the only words he’d been capable of for the past two hours, and they wore thin indeed, even though Ser Anton’s thoughts had not been dissimilar.
“I imagine they will let us know shortly,” the swordmaster replied.
“That’s what you said an hour ago.”
Ser Anton could almost hear Andaro cringe, although he knew he wouldn’t actually see it should he turn around. “Carlo,” he said softly. Too softly.
Happily, Carlo was impatient, but he was not suicidal. He managed, for five minutes, to be silent. In this, as in most things, timing was everything.
The day proceeded poorly; Ser Anton was mildly concerned. Had he not known that the Imperials had in fact sent out guards—in force—to every party in the arena, he would have been actively worried. He felt some fear that they might discover what they were seeking.
No—fear was too strong a word, and he was Southern enough to correct himself although there was no one to hear the half-formed thought. He was concerned.
Still, there were reasons why one did not choose to threaten a master of his skill; he acknowledged this truth with both pride and a twinge of weariness.
“Ser Anton,” a familiar voice said. He shifted both gaze and stance and offered a correct, if somewhat stiff, bow to the Princess of the Blood.
“ACormaris,” he said. Wisewoman. Still, for all her claim of wisdom, she had about her none of the Voyani trappings, none of the sense of their deep mystery, their hidden certainties. This was wisdom as the Lord might have it, not the Lady—but there were few indeed, even among the Radann, who granted the aspect of great wisdom to the Lord.
“Forgive us for this intrusion and forgive us for the delay in the test. We have had a complaint laid by an authority that it is not within our power to ignore. It seems that the lives and the safety of the athletes and their witnesses are at risk, and we have undertaken the responsibility of guaranteeing their safety.” She paused, offering him the edge of a smile. “We will request that your students, yourself, and those who form your following, present themselves, momentarily, for inspection by three of our experts.”
“And if they refuse?”
“Then they will be refused entry into the test.”
“Impossible.”
“Unavoidable.” She shifted slightly, bending at the knee, taking on a stance that—were it not for the lack of a weapon—he might have recognized immediately. “We will tender apology and possibly compensation should your students feel it necessary to refuse.”
“And how will we be certain that your . . . inspections . . . do no harm?”
She met his gaze, but she did not parry the blow. Instead, to his chagrin, she sidestepped it and struck home. “That is beneath you, Ser Anton.”
He raised a brow, surprised at the sternness of her chosen tone. Surprised by it, amused by it, but set off-balance for a moment. There were no Southern swordsmen who could throw him off his game. And perhaps, had she been a man, she might not have succeeded. His weakness, not hers, and like any good opponent, she exploited it.
Even if unaware of its existence. He bowed, and this bow was fluid, all grace; no sign of age marred it. “It was,” he replied softly, “as you say. You will forgive me, but we did not realize that you wished to see our entire retinue.”
It was her turn to frown. “I apologize. Word was sent�
��”
“It was not sent directly to me; it was intercepted by one of my students.” Carlo, of course; it had to be Carlo. “And the messenger’s Torra was poor. Sadly, Carlo’s Weston is poorer.”
“We act in haste,” she said, “But not with the greatest organization. This is the first time in the history of Challenge—” He lifted a hand to correct the sentence that she had not, quite, finished; she smiled ruefully. “The first time since the inner city difficulties one hundred and sixty-three years ago, then. I spoke for brevity’s sake.”
“And I interrupted for form’s sake. The point is yours, ACormaris. If I cannot assemble the retinue, what penalty will we be required to pay?”
“No penalty—but those members of your retinue that are not assembled and witnessed will not be granted passage into the arenas or the palace for the duration of the Challenge.”
“I see.”
“We still have the spectators to witness and to pass,” she said softly. “We can return.”
“We will be assembled,” he said. “I assume that free passage is being granted?”
“To enter, yes, at the moment. To leave . . .”
He raised a brow.
The smile left her face. “The charges and the complaint are serious. We will not ignore them, and no amnesty, should the guilty party be found, will be granted.”
He heard the fall of the sword in her words, and he smiled.
He smiled.
Goldwork, in the heat of a day such as this, was not the choice of any sane man. That was work for either apprentices or the rainy season, although it was perfectly acceptable to acquire one’s wares when the merchants traveled. Gold worked at the hands of a maker was exceptionally rare, and the makers worked as they pleased; no man or woman had the right—or the lack of sense—to tell a maker otherwise.
And yet.
In the courtyard sheltered to the west by the outer wall of the Hall of Wise Counsel, beneath awnings and tents set up for just that purpose, the makers worked.
And what they produced was not, in fact, art; it was craft, pure and simple; craft of a kind that the most humble goldsmith’s apprentice would not boast of. Indeed, it might have been less insulting, and less politically unwise, to assemble such an army of apprentices.
But for one thing: the makers made their home on the isle of Averalaan Aramarelas, and the makers did not make an error. Not one. Even in this, the most simple and unseemly of tasks, they were lost to the world; the gold mattered, the simple molds mattered; the cooling mattered—and each thing in turn, end over end, was repeated beneath the open sky.
The magi worked in concert with the makers, and this was an uneasy, even a terrible, alliance. Neither magi nor maker were used to being dealt with harshly, and neither were used to being forced to false courtesy.
Meralonne APhaniel, who oversaw both the making and the finishing of the rings, was exhausted before the work was half done. It was simple work; it was work that, at one point in his long life would have been entirely beneath him, or worse, an insult to his particular capabilities.
He was glad of that; as a youth, he had never dreamed of enchanting such a number of things, and only the fact that they were insignificant at all—that it was a magic meant to linger ten days, no more—allowed him to survive it. He would face the fevers for it; he was certain of it. He was fairly certain he would survive them—but he knew that he could say this only because some of that burden had been passed on; five men worked at his command. And each of them wore, as adornment and office, the symbol of the Order of Knowledge: The moon in three phases, and the elemental symbols in the quartered full face.
“Member APhaniel,” a voice called gently.
He looked up and met the blue eyes of the most renowned bard that Senniel College had produced.
“The ACormaris sent me to you. She says that the task is almost done.”
“And you had to come in person to deliver this message? I’m exhausted, Kallandras, not stupid.”
The bard smiled. “No. Not stupid. I chose to deliver the message in person.”
“Why?”
“This is the first making, but it will not be the last,” he said softly. “And perhaps I wish to see it to capture it fully. There will be a song at the end of this battle, and a song at the end of this war. Whose voices will carry it, I don’t know. But this is the first opportunity that anyone has had—to my knowledge—to see this many makers at work in concert.”
“Or mages?”
“No,” Kallandras replied. “I have seen the work of mages before. I mean no disrespect, old friend, when I say that the province of the makers holds more interest for me; they make magic out of things ordinary.”
“There is a magic in the ordinary,” Meralonne said. “I will concede that to you. To watch them at work on something worthy of their grand obsession is probably as close to a glimpse of the gods at work as we are likely to see in this age.” His gaze narrowed. “And I am old enough and feeble enough—at the moment—to pretend to believe you. Tell the ACormaris that we will be ready shortly.”
Kallandras turned and spoke a moment, and then turned back. “I think,” he said softly, “that Jevrin can manage from here.”
“Jevrin,” Meralonne replied succinctly, “is a clod.”
“A talented clod. Meralonne. Enough. We have not passed through the fires together to surrender to obsession and overwork.”
“I believe,” the mage said, “that I know my own limits.”
“Knowledge and acceptance are two different things. Come.”
The mage held the bard’s gaze. Found it unwavering and cool, and found that fact comforting. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I think that perhaps—just perhaps—there is some merit in what you say.”
And before he could make his way from around the wide, flat bench, before the first rays of the overbearing light could mark his pale skin, his treacherous knees gave way completely.
He cursed, and cursed again.
Kallandras was beside him, his arm a support. Humiliating that it was necessary.
“How did you know?” he said, from between clenched teeth.
The bard was absolutely silent. Then: “The infirmary has been put at your disposal. The Lord of the Compact desires your continuing presence in Avantari.” He called out, and the man that Meralonne had pronounced a clod nodded. Grimly.
“I told him,” he said. “But he’s one of the magi.” As if that were explanation enough. It probably was.
“You came to stop me,” Meralonne said.
“Does it matter? I’m here, and I’ll be of use while I am.” Silence descended as they walked, sharing his weight between them. At last, Kallandras said softly, “You are not the only mage I know. Even before I came to this city, I understood the price of their power. It is not very different from the cost of my own.”
He spoke in a voice that no one, no one but Meralonne would hear.
And they were, in Meralonne’s opinion, acceptable last words to hear; the chills came suddenly, far faster than he had expected; his collapse was complete, and completely beyond his control, long before the healerie’s doors opened to contain him.
He carried the rings. At the last minute, an ornate box was found to contain them; the obvious method—a large sack—was deemed, in the end, unsuitable for public display. The fact that the men who so deemed were also men who had not lifted the box itself was not lost on Kallandras by the time he approached the arena.
Mirialyn met him, her expression the only thing about her that was serene as always.
“The Master apologizes,” he said quietly, “but says that the remainder of the rings will be ready within the hour. It has been—it has been a difficult two days, ACormaris.”
She shrugged, then took one of the boxed rings and pr
essed it firmly into the palm of her hand. “Hard to believe,” she mused, “that something this plain and this thin could be worth the political penalty we may well pay for its creation.” Turning, she led him down the hall, the command to follow inherent in the motion.
“Valedan,” she said, just ahead of his vision but not his hearing. “We’ve done. We’ll finish with athletes and trainers first, work our way to the spectators by the end of the evening. There will be room for error,” she added, although it was obvious, “but we’re watching.”
He rounded the corner then, and saw Valedan. The boy was pacing like a caged beast.
“You’ll forgive me,” she added, “if I do not choose to don the ring yet; we will all be forced to wear them, but a demonstration of their function might save us some difficulty where the Northerners and the Southerners are involved.”
He nodded. Held out a hand, palm up.
She smiled, and Kallandras saw a flash of warmth in an expression that he would have thought, this day, had none. “You’re the first,” she said. “Be honored. The makers have been slaving in our service for almost a day and a half, without pause.”
His eyes widened slightly. “But the rings are—”
“I know. Put it on.”
“I don’t think it’s going to fit—”
“Valedan, we’re now four hours late to start; we’ll be five hours late before this is over, and only if we work quickly.” She took a breath. “My apologies, Tyr’agar.”
“Accepted,” he said. “Alina’s not here.” He slid the ring over his finger, and Kallandras, watching, saw it widen to fit him, moving not as a metal, but as a shining clay. Light limned it momentarily, a brightness and a warmth that seemed the essence of gold itself. And then it sat upon the ring finger of the young Tyr’s sword hand.
“Thank you,” Mirialyn said quietly. “You can’t remove it. It is attuned to you, and if for some reason you cease to be you, it will . . . let us know.”
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