CHAPTER 15
“The Scholar felt a lot of guilt and despair for something not alive,” said Jes, who had appointed himself escort to Seraph and Hennea, as the three of them walked to the library. Everyone else, including the dog, had gone out exploring together.
“Hinnum created him,” Hennea answered Jes before Seraph could. “He was the greatest of the Colossae wizards. I suppose if he could create the mermori, he could also create an illusion that empaths could feel.”
“Why would he do that to something that exists to help people find information?” Jes asked rather reasonably—for Jes.
“Is that why you insisted on coming today?” asked Seraph. She wasn’t ready to put limits on an illusion created by Hinnum either, but she also found herself agreeing with Jes.
“The Guardian doesn’t trust him because he has no scent,” Jes said with a shrug. “I explained the Scholar is an illusion, but neither the Guardian nor I think that an illusion should be so interested in Hennea.”
The main room of the library was empty when they arrived, but there was a book lying open on one of the tables.
Seraph picked it up. It seemed to be a general treatise of some sort on magic, open to a chapter on the “Aspects of Man”—whatever that meant. However, it had obviously been left out for them, so she started reading.
Hennea hovered briefly over her shoulder, then walked to one of the bookshelves and began perusing titles. Jes paced restlessly back and forth for a while.
Finally, he came to stand in front of Seraph.
“If you want to go out and explore, go do so,” she told him without looking up. “Just be careful. We’ll be fine. It doesn’t look as though the Scholar is going to come out today.”
He sniffed the air. “All right,” he said. “But I’ll be back in a little while.”
She heard his rapid footsteps down the stairs and the click of the outside door as it shut behind him.
“I didn’t finish the story of the Stalker yesterday,” said the Scholar’s voice as soon as Jes was gone.
Seraph looked up from her book to see the illusion standing in front of Hennea.
“Nor did I tell you why the wizards were forced to sacrifice this city,” he said.
“No,” agreed Hennea, reshelving a book she’d taken out. “I wondered why you didn’t.”
The Scholar stared at her with that half smile that seemed more of a mask than an expression. “Make yourself comfortable, and I will tell you.”
Seraph set her book aside and sat down on the other end of the bench where Hennea was sitting down.
“The Weaver created a binding that would keep both him and his twin from interacting directly with his creations. But he could not completely isolate them, because eventually their power would build and destroy his bindings. Instead he created six gods who would control the power of the Weaver and of the Stalker.”
The Scholar paused.
“The Orders,” said Hennea hoarsely, though Seraph couldn’t see anything in what the Scholar had said that ought to have bothered her. “The Raven, the Owl, the Falcon, the Eagle, the Lark, and the Cormorant. Magic, music, the hunt, the guardian, healing, and storms.”
“Magic, music, hunt, war, healing, and wind,” corrected the Scholar.
“The Guardian is not an Order of soldiers,” Hennea argued.
“No,” agreed the Scholar, but he did not elaborate upon his answer.
“Something broke the bindings on the Stalker,” said Seraph. “The Elder Wizards sacrificed the city to bind the Stalker. Not because they created the Stalker, but because something they did loosed the god of destruction.” Or so she’d been taught.
“The gods ruled this world for a very long time,” the Scholar said, and Seraph couldn’t tell if he’d even noticed what she’d said. “Long enough for a small village to become a town, then a great city. Long enough for the wizards to become arrogant and fall away from the worship of gods. ‘What good praying to the Cormorant who might or might not answer?’ they asked themselves. ‘If you bring your gold to Korsack or Terilia or one of the other wind witches, they will do your will as long as you are the first or most generous with your gold.’ ”
The Scholar reached out as if he might touch Hennea, but then pulled both hands behind his back.
“It didn’t help that the gods no longer granted the gifts they had once freely given. The great city had no desperate need for a legendary warrior or a gifted healer. They did not depend upon their crops to survive, and so they needed no god-gifted weather mage. So the gods gave less, were worshiped less, but they were not unhappy with Colossae—perhaps just indifferent.”
The Scholar closed his eyes. “Except for the Raven, for Colossae was Her city. The city of wizards.”
No matter what her magic told her, Seraph was having increasing difficulty in believing that this was an illusion—or at least just an illusion.
“Children were taken to the Raven’s temple on their name days,” he said quietly. “The Raven’s priests would tell them if they were mageborn or not. If they were, then the oracle would tell them what areas of magic would be their specialty. Sometimes, the Raven herself came and blessed them with a gift of her own magic, which the child could use without need of study or ritual.”
“Like the Raven’s Order,” said Seraph.
“Yes.”
There was a long silence.
“What happened?” whispered Hennea intently, and she leaned forward. “Something terrible happened.”
“Yes.” The Scholar took a half step away from Hennea. “Something terrible happened. There was a boy. He had the power to be a successful wizard, having been blessed by the goddess herself, but he had no dedication. He would not study—he had no need to earn a living because his father was a great wizard and so had accumulated great wealth.”
He turned his back to them and stared at the great rows of books. “This boy fell in love with a maiden who loved him in return—so long as his father’s gold was more than that of any of her other suitors. The day came when she found another, richer, man. When the boy reproached her, she told him that she preferred a man adept in the fighting arts rather than a half-trained wizard.”
The Scholar sighed. “The boy could not bear the rejection. If she wanted a fighting man, he would become one. Remember though, that he was a lazy young man, used to buying his way through life. So instead of hiring an instructor and learning, he went to the war god’s temple.”
“The Eagle,” said Seraph.
“Aythril, the god of war,” agreed the Scholar, his back still toward them. “The war god’s priestess laughed at the boy’s plea for the gift of martial arts. The war god would never have given his gifts to a man so obviously unworthy. She told the boy that if he trained for a year and a day, she would petition the war god on his behalf. The boy was angry and offended, for he was proud.”
The Scholar bowed his head. “He went to his father, an old wizard and powerful. People walked softly in his presence because he was quick to take offense—and the priestess’s words offended him greatly.”
“Hinnum?” asked Seraph.
The Scholar turned back and met Seraph’s eyes. “No, not Hinnum, though there are sins enough to lie on his shoulders. Ontil the Peacock was the wizard’s name. He saw the priestess’s words as an attack on his standing, and so he vowed to take the gifts that the priestess would not willingly give. He hid himself here”—the Scholar waved a hand around the library—“and for a year he studied and buried himself in obscure texts.”
He looked at Hennea again, though she wasn’t looking at him at all. She was staring at her hands.
“The old wizard had help in his endeavor. He was not well liked, but, as I said, he was powerful, and there were many who feared him or sought his favor. One night, with four dozen lesser mages, he called the war god’s power to his son. But the power of the war god is not held lightly—fifty mages died that night. Fifty mages and a god.”
“D
o you remember, Raven?” The Scholar leaned forward and touched Hennea lightly on the shoulder.
Seraph frowned, but there was nothing magical in the Scholar’s touch, she would have felt it. Why did he think Hennea would remember any of this?
Hennea flinched away from his hand and came to her feet. “Thank you,” she said in a distracted tone. “I’m going to take a walk.”
The Scholar watched Hennea disappear down the stairs and continued to watch until the sound of the outer door shutting rang through the room.
“You are not just an illusion,” said Seraph.
The Scholar looked at her, no smile upon his face at all. “A child was born that night. A little girl. Rage such as no child should have gave power to her voice, the rage of a murdered god, and the very walls shook with His power in a baby’s cries. She was taken to the Lark’s temple, where the Lark Herself sent her to sleep until something could be done.”
Seraph sat back down, abandoning her half-formed intention to follow Hennea. “Guardian,” she said.
The Scholar shook his head. “Almost, you understand. A god is immortal, we thought. They cannot die. But Ontil proved us wrong. Only the Stalker and the Weaver are immortal. And that part of them that made the Eagle a god survived his death, though it survived broken and torn, tainted by the wrath of a murdered god.”
“In the child.”
“Years passed.” The Scholar gave Seraph the same intensity of attention he had given to Hennea. “Years in which it became obvious to the wizards that the god of destruction was awaking. Not just in Colossae, but all over the world we heard of mountains falling to the earth and oceans heaving themselves beyond their boundaries.”
“Hinnum, the city’s greatest wizard, went to the Raven for help—as he had all of his long life.”
“He was four centuries old,” Seraph said.
The illusion’s eyes brightened with temper. “Four and a half. I—He knelt before Her statue in Her temple and pleaded for aid.” Seraph realized it had not been temper alone that had brightened his eyes because a tear slid down his face. “She used to walk with him in the gardens here, because Hinnum was Her favorite. They would argue and bicker like children and when his third, most beloved, wife died, She held him through the night while he cried.”
“She loved him,” Seraph whispered.
“Like a son,” he said. “Her love and Her Consort was the Eagle.”
Seraph sucked in her breath, caught up in his story. “And wizards used the gifts She had given them to kill Him.”
The Scholar nodded. “She blamed Herself, and She blamed us.” He closed his eyes briefly. “She was so angry. While Hinnum prayed, he heard others enter, but until the Owl spoke he didn’t realize who had come into the Raven’s temple. It was the first time he’d seen any of the other gods.”
He sat down beside Seraph, taking her hands in his own. “The Owl was… was like your husband. Even frightened as I was I could not help returning Her smile. She lifted me to my feet, and I saw the Others.” He paused, and Seraph decided not to point out that he’d claimed to be Hinnum again. She would wait until he was finished with what he had to tell her. Hinnum, she thought, Hinnum would know how to save her husband and how to kill the Shadowed—and somehow this illusion was Hinnum.
“The Hunter was not a big man”—the Scholar was saying—“nor did He speak much, but when he was in the room, I was always aware of him, even in the presence of the other gods. The Cormorant looked just like the statue in His temple—they all did really—but the Cormorant looked as though a smile belonged on His face. He wasn’t smiling, but I could see that was the expression he was most comfortable with. I didn’t like the Lark. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the way that She held the child who slept in Her arms, the child who bore the rage and power of the god of war—as if she were a stone or rock, not a child who suffered for other people’s sins.”
The Scholar pulled his hands away from Seraph’s and covered his face. “The Owl called my Lady, and forced the Raven to come to Her Call. Ah, Raven who was, that I could have died before that day.”
He sighed and let his hands fall limply to his sides. When he spoke again, he continued his story with more dispassion.
“When the Raven came, the Lark showed Her the sleeping child, and said, ‘I am no more powerful than your consort was, Raven. In another month I shall not be able to hold His anger asleep in this child. And then his power will ravage this world, and nothing will be able to hold it in check.’
“ ‘This isn’t about the child, or about the Eagle.’ said the Cormorant. ‘It is about the Weaver and the Stalker. The Eagle’s death has weakened the binding that holds them. We must restore the balance.’ ”
The Scholar looked down at his lap. “Then the Weaver spoke. I don’t know what he said because his voice overwhelmed me, and I fainted. When I came to myself, only Raven was there, sitting beside me and stroking my hair.”
Tears fell again down the Scholar’s face, but he seemed not to notice them. “The Raven told me, ‘We give mortals small pieces of our godhood all of the time: you call them gifts: the toddler who can sing a song note perfect; the warrior whose reflexes are faster than most; the midwife whose patients never die of birthing fever.’ ” The Scholar stopped speaking because his voice grew too thick to continue.
“She killed the other gods,” said Seraph, stunned as she realized what must have happened. “Ellevanal said that the Travelers killed their gods and ate them—and he was right.”
“We killed them, the Raven and I,” agreed the Scholar. “They chose to die because it was the only way to save the All of Being. They sacrificed themselves and their souls flew free, leaving only their power behind. The Raven showed me how to divide the power and bind the Orders so when the mortal who bore them died, they would find another Order Bearer.”
“But the Eagle’s power was corrupted,” Seraph whispered. “He was not a willing sacrifice and would not leave His power.” Oh my poor Jes, she thought. “Empaths. You gave empaths the power and rage of the war god’s ghost.”
When Hennea rushed out of the library, she didn’t know what had upset her, just that she could not bear to hear one more of the Scholar’s words. The flood of anger, of pain, was so strong—she had no idea where it had come from.
She walked rapidly with no goal other than to wear out her body and give herself a chance to think. To become calm. A Raven had no business allowing herself to become so upset. Disastrous things happened when a Raven was out of control.
She followed a narrow footpath behind a hedge of roses, found a small fountain, and sat upon the small stone bench in front of it. The roses in the hedge were opened wide to the sun and had no smell at all.
It took a long time, but gradually peace seeped through her bones, leaving her feeling more like herself. She put a hand into the water of the fountain, then drew it out dry. There was a barrier of time between her hand and the cool water where small fish had once lived. She couldn’t touch the water because it didn’t exist in this time, not really.
The memory of how the spell worked was hers. She could break it if she wanted to. She didn’t remember where she’d learned it: she hadn’t known it yesterday.
She didn’t hear him come. There was nothing to warn her, until his hand closed around her wrist, and he pulled her to her feet.
“Jes?” she whispered though she knew better. The hand that gripped her so carefully was burning with cold.
“No.” The Guardian examined her face as pounding fear washed over her, through her, without touching her because she could never fear him. “Jes is where he cannot be hurt.”
She was wrong, she was not immune to fear. The Guardian’s words terrified her.
“You can’t do that,” she said. “You can’t lock him away. He’s an empath—he needs to be with you.”
The Guardian’s lip curled in an expression she’d never seen on Jes’s face, though it was familiar. Achingly familiar. Where had she seen
it?
“I do not need advice from you on how to protect Jes,” the Guardian said, and she finally realized he was angry with her—a rage so deep that he’d locked Jes away from it.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is there something new wrong with Tier?”
He snarled at her, the growl of an enraged mountain cat out of a human mouth, then turned on his heel and began striding away, pulling her behind him.
“Papa is dying—or didn’t you know that?” His voice was soft with menace. “Isn’t it important to you?”
“You know me better than that,” Hennea said, trying to answer his anger with control.
As if the calmness of her voice were more than he could bear, the Guardian jerked her to face him and shook her once. The small act of violence only seemed to increase his frustration—he growled, a low, angry sound.
He bent his head and kissed her. It was a hard kiss, born of rage. She felt her bottom lip split under the pressure. When he tasted her blood, he hesitated, then shoved her away from him—though he didn’t release his hold on her wrist.
He was still for a moment, then began striding forward again. “Papa leaves his lute in its pack, and my mother cries herself to sleep every night. They pretend and pretend all day long so they won’t hurt us.” His voice was so low that she felt it as much as heard it.
“That is no different now than it was this morning,” said Hennea. “But your mother and I are getting closer to the answers we need. We know who the Shadowed is. Guardian—”
She let her voice trail off because she recognized the streets the Guardian had taken, she knew where it led—and she didn’t know how she knew.
She looked at Jes’s face and saw that he would not listen to her now, not until he’d given vent to his rage—and maybe not even then. It was not a good thing that he’d locked Jes away. Strong emotions were such a danger to the Eagle: love, hatred… betrayal. She took hope from the long-fingered hand that was wrapped around her wrist: not once had it tightened enough to bruise.
She watched that hand, and let Jes direct her to the end of the street, where a temple much like the one they’d found their first day in Colossae presided. Jes led the way through the temple’s open doors into the antechamber which was covered in thick carpets. There was a second set of steps, four of them, and another doorway. He didn’t pause as the carpets gave way to white marble, but walked to the far end of the room. He grabbed her shoulder with his free hand and held her before him so she stood directly in front of the black marble statue on the dais of the Temple of the Raven.
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