Beyond the Boundary Stones (The Chronicles of Tevenar Book 3)

by Holder, Angela

  Tereid endured until the light winked out, then slammed his door without another word. Josiah wrinkled his nose at the blank wood. He turned to Ozor, polite but wary. “Would you like us to treat you here, or would you rather we come to your house?”

  “Here’s fine,” Ozor answered. He stood patiently while Josiah and Sar healed him. Again Vigorre noticed the rash appear and disappear.

  He waited until they were finished with all the Tevenarans and had bid farewell to Eifel to ask. “What did you do differently with Tereid and Ozor?”

  Josiah shrugged, looking vaguely guilty but pleased. “With most of them we slowed the disease at the same time we sped up their body’s defenses. So it never had a chance to fully develop before it got wiped out. With them we sped up everything. The disease progressed the way it would have without the Mother’s power, but a lot faster. So for a minute or two they got to feel the itching and fever and all the rest.” He shrugged again. “Either works. Sar had no problem doing it the simpler way.”

  “Hmm. So they’ll be immune to it from now on like I am. I wonder if the others will?”

  Josiah’s eyes got wide, and he looked at Sar for a moment. “I don’t know. Elkan didn’t say. Maybe he never thought about it. We’ll have to watch and see if any of them come down with it again. The women will be tending Kabos…” His eyes got the distant expression that meant he was dreaming up clever ways to test his ideas.

  Vigorre listened as Josiah rambled on about that subject and others, occasionally making interested noises or asking questions, all the way back to the city. It was easy to keep him distracted from the question of where Nirel had gone. A few times Josiah started to question Vigorre about the day’s revelations, mostly incredulous queries into how he could have been fooled into thinking the familiars were demons, or at least how he could have kept on thinking it after he saw them at work. Each time Vigorre answered as briefly as he could get away with and changed the subject.

  They reached the far side of the Dualist Quarter and passed through the gate into the market. Vigorre waved vaguely. “Father expects me home soon. Will you be all right going back to the palace by yourself?”

  Josiah wound his fingers in Sar’s mane and nodded. “We’ll be careful.”

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” Vigorre raised his hand in farewell and turned onto the street that led most directly to his home. He forced himself to maintain a measured pace while Josiah and Sar were still in sight. But as soon as the road bent, he ran, ducking through the light Restday crowds with breathless apologies to those he pushed out of his way.

  He barked orders at a footman, blurted an explanation to his father and Nathenarre, then took the stairs two at a time, not waiting to see if they understood or approved. He burst into Nirel’s room, glad to find her fully dressed and sitting in a chair.

  She looked up from the book she was reading, her face going still as she saw his expression. “What’s wrong?”

  There wasn’t time to be anything but blunt. “You’ve got to come. It’s your father. He caught measles after all. I was just there; he’s not doing well.”

  She turned pale and the book slid from her hands. “What?” She jumped to her feet. “How—?”

  He caught her arm as she tried to shove past him. “I’ll take you in the carriage; it will be faster. I’ve already ordered it brought around.”

  “Yes. Good.” She swallowed, shook her head, and grasped his hand. Hers was cold and damp. “Let’s go.”

  The few minutes they waited on the porch before a servant drove up with the two-seater felt like hours. He helped Nirel to her seat, then jumped up and took the reins. As soon as he maneuvered them out of the narrow confines of the drive into the open street, he urged the horses to a fast trot.

  He endured Nirel’s silence as long as he could, focusing on steering efficiently around the sparse traffic. Finally he blurted, “It’s not your fault.”

  “Of course it is.” She stared straight ahead. “He hasn’t left the village since we moved in. Where else did he pick it up, if not from me?”

  “Didn’t children with measles come to the tent shows?”

  Her eyes narrowed as she considered for a moment, but then slumped and shook her head. “I don’t remember any.”

  “There probably were, though.” He wished he didn’t have to hold the reins so he could put an arm around her shoulders. “But even if he did catch it from you, it’s still not your fault. You didn’t know you could be carrying it. If anything, it was Elkan’s fault for not warning you.”

  She wrapped her arms around her body. “I guess.” She was silent for a long time. Just as Vigorre was about to say something else well-meaning but probably useless, she shivered. “How bad is he?”

  Vigorre wished he could soften the news, but she’d see for herself very soon. “Bad. Eifel said he’s been unconscious since this morning. Josiah kept hoping he’d get a chance to talk him into accepting healing, but he didn’t wake up the whole time we were there.”

  She huffed with something between a laugh and a sob. “He’d just have cursed at him if he had. He hates Josiah even more than the other wizards. Even if the Lord of Justice didn’t forbid it, he wouldn’t let Josiah touch him. Not even if—”

  Vigorre’s heart clenched at her stricken expression. She turned desperate, pleading eyes to him. “He’s not, is he? Surely if I take good care of him, feed him broth and keep him clean and wipe him with cool cloths to bring the fever down, like Nathenarre did for me, he’ll be fine. It will be harder for him, Elkan said it was worse for adults, but that just means it will take him longer to recover. Right?”

  He couldn’t bear to crush her hopes. “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes. I’ll pray to the Lord of Justice every minute. This is a test of our faith. He’ll see that we stay true and grant us his blessing.” She twisted her hands together.

  “Nirel.” Vigorre searched for the right words. “Your father’s very sick. You have to prepare yourself for the possibility—”

  “No!” She whirled on him, eyes blazing. “He’s going to live. Whatever it takes. I’ll do anything.”

  “Why?” Vigorre glared at her. “Why do you care? I’ve seen how he treats you. Like a servant. No, worse than that, like a dog. As if you were his possession, his to command.”

  “He does not! Father loves me. He follows every Ordinance about how a father should treat a daughter. If he’s harsh sometimes, it’s only because he has to be. I haven’t always obeyed him like I ought to. Of course he had to punish me. How else would I learn?”

  “You mean he beat you into submission. I know how cruel those Ordinances are. Father’s petitioned the Matriarch for years to forbid the abuse Dualists commit in the name of their faith.”

  She hunched her shoulders in a way that told Vigorre he was right. “He had to,” she repeated. “I deserved it.”

  The thought of Kabos’s hand raised in violence against the daughter he should have protected filled Vigorre with rage. “And he deserves for you to spit in his face and leave him to die in his own filth.”

  Nirel half rose, eyes blazing. “Stop right now and let me down! I won’t listen to you insult him!” She swayed and grabbed for a handhold.

  “Sit down!” Vigorre slowed the horses until she complied, then urged them on again. “You’ll never make it in time if you have to walk the rest of the way.”

  She gulped and stared at him. “It’s that bad?”

  “Yes. I didn’t want to tell you, but Josiah didn’t think he’d last until sunset without healing. He’ll probably never wake up.”

  Slowly she shrank in on herself, eyes brimming with tears. She turned away and raised her arms to cover her face before any could fall. She said something, but her voice was so muffled he couldn’t understand her.

  He took the risk of transferring the reins to one hand and reached to gather her to his side. She slumped against him without protest, limp and trembling. “I’m so
sorry. What did you say?”

  She wasn’t any louder, but this time he caught the words. “I’ll never get the chance to tell him how much I love him.” She shuddered. “You think it’s bad that he beat me, but it was far worse when he stopped. Because he’d given up. Cast me out of his heart. Even though I was following Elder Davon’s orders, in obedience to the highest Ordinances, he wouldn’t accept that it was right for me to—to pursue you. He called me—” Her voice caught.

  Vigorre tightened his arm, crushing her against his body. “I can guess.”

  She gave a hiccuping sob. “Ever since, it’s like I’m a stranger. Like he doesn’t care at all. Even though I gave up everything to be with him, over and over…”

  She buried her face in his robes and wept. Vigorre held her, silently cursing Kabos to the most horrible fates he could imagine.

  They drove the rest of the way to the village in silence. When they drew up in front of the cottage, Nirel jumped down before the wheels stopped and raced inside. Vigorre took his time securing the horses to a hitching post before following her in, his steps slow and heavy.

  He found her sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching Kabos’s limp hand to her chest, gazing into his sightless face. For a moment Vigorre was sure the man was dead, but then a cough, weaker than before, shook his body.

  Nirel turned to him, cold determination in her eyes. “Heal him.”

  Vigorre felt as if she’d shoved him off balance. “What?”

  “The eagle. Tharanirre. They’re all sure she’s meant for you. I want you to bond with her, and heal him.”

  “What? I—”

  “Don’t tell me you can’t! You say you love me; prove it. If you call Tharanirre, she’ll hear you and come. I know it will work.” She glared at him, mouth set in a hard line.

  “But Nirel—” Vigorre’s head swam. He’d never told her about his vision. It was too private, too revealing. He hadn’t wanted to admit how deeply tempted he’d been. “She’s a demon. I’ve always believed you that they’re demons! Are you telling me you were lying?”

  “No!” She rose and came to glower at him, fists clenched as if she intended to punch him in the gut. “But I don’t care.”

  “You’re asking me to enslave myself to a demon?” Vigorre’s voice cracked the way it had when it first started to deepen.

  “That’s exactly what I’m asking.” Nirel jutted out her jaw. “It won’t hurt you. The demons haven’t harmed Elkan or Josiah or Kevessa. You’ll be fine, just like they are.” She stared into his eyes with absolute conviction. “My father is dying. You have the power to save him. If you refuse, I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

  For a dizzy instant, Vigorre considered it. It would be so easy to let himself believe he was doing the right thing. That he had no choice. That it wouldn’t be so bad after all. He could accept that what he saw really was the Mother. He could let her power flow into and through him the way he so desperately desired, and pretend that no harm would come of it.

  No. He silenced the words of acceptance before they tumbled out. He refused to help the demons conquer Ramunna. Not even for Nirel.

  “Nirel, I’m sorry. I love you, but I can’t.” He drank in the sight of her lovely, anguished face, acutely aware that he’d probably destroyed any remaining chance they had of a future together. “I think I’d better go.” He wrenched himself around and strode toward the door.

  She ran after him and grabbed his arm, dragging him to a halt. “No! Come back! You were right, I was lying! They’re not demons. Elder Davon made it up, just like you saw in the window.”

  As much as he wanted to believe her, he couldn’t. “You’re lying now. You’ll say anything to get me to do what you want.” He felt tired to the bone, every muscle aching. “It doesn’t matter anyway. If Tharanirre’s really from the Mother, she wouldn’t heal Kabos. Not unless he consented, and even if he woke up we both know he wouldn’t.”

  “I’m his closest family. I could consent for him.” But her voice shook as she said it.

  “No, you couldn’t. And you wouldn’t. I’m sorry, Nirel, but it’s hopeless.” He reached for her hands.

  She yanked them away. “Out. Get out. I hate you. I never want to see you again.”

  He rubbed his face. “Maybe that’s for the best.” He stumbled toward the door.

  At the threshold he paused, looking back. She’d resumed her station at Kabos’s side, clutching his hand, gazing down into his face. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. “Nirel…” Vigorre shook his head. “Good-bye.”

  She didn’t look up. He shut the door gently behind him and left.

  * * *

  Nirel sat with Kabos for hours. Women came and went. Some of them tried to speak to her, but she ignored them. Eventually they quit bothering. When the room darkened, someone lit a lamp. At some point a bowl of soup appeared on the table next to her. When the pain of her stomach’s emptiness forced her to sip a little, it was cold.

  Kabos’s breathing became more and more labored. As the night wore on, over and over he would release a long, rattling breath, then lie silent as Nirel’s heart thudded in her ears, until at last with a gasping snort he’d suck in one more lungful of air.

  Until he didn’t.

  Nirel waited, and waited, and waited, while the silence stretched longer and longer. She felt numb, suspended. Surely at any moment grief would crash down and crush her.

  What came instead was a tremendous sense of relief.

  She was free. Never again would she have to face his disappointment, his disgust, his rage. Never again would she feel the pain of his belt on her back, or the worse pain of his rejection. She wanted to jump up and dance and laugh in delight.

  As swiftly as it had come the joy fled, replaced by smothering guilt. The Lord of Justice knew her heart. Surely he would shower calamity on her for the crime of rejoicing that her father was dead. He would judge her unworthy to serve him and cast her out of his presence. He’d be right to do so. No penance could ever repay such terrible sin.

  Even worse, had she wished Kabos dead? At some level below conscious intent had she sought to bring about this end? Why had it never occurred to her that coming home each night after working with sick people all day might put him at risk? She’d known very well that diseases could be contagious, and that if he contracted a deadly illness he would refuse the wizards’ healing. Either she’d been unforgivably stupid not to see the danger, or some part of her had wanted this to happen.

  She should go to Elder Davon and confess everything. She should tell him her faith was a fraud, and that she deserved to be cast out of the Faithful. If in his kindness he refused to believe her, she could reveal the secret that made every second she spent in the shrine a desecration, her every prayer blasphemy, her every protestation of faith a lie. After he learned that the Lady’s corrupting light had once entered and changed her body, he would have no choice.

  But she wouldn’t. She needed her faith too much. She needed the community of the Faithful now more than ever. Vigorre had betrayed her secret. Elkan would show everyone how she’d lied. The Matriarch would be out for her blood. Without Elder Davon to shelter her, where would she go?

  Tonight she’d lost both her father and Vigorre. She couldn’t bear to lose the only person left who loved her.

  She took Kabos’s hand. Was it her imagination, or was it already cooler than living flesh? She looked down at his face. It looked peaceful. She’d never seen him look peaceful before.

  “Father,” she said, her voice harsh in the hushed room. “I guess you’re standing before the Lord of Justice now. I hope he understands how hard you tried. I hope he knows that you did your best, that you never turned away from him in your heart. I hope he welcomes you, and grants you true justice at last.”

  It was considered disrespectful to address the Lord of Justice with anything other than the formal words of his prescribed prayers. She tried to recall the Prayer for the Dead. Elder Semanel had taught it to he
r for her trials, but she’d had no occasion to use it since.

  The cold, elegant words came to her. She repeated them over and over in her heart, through the remaining hours until the blackness greyed into dawn.

  Lord of Justice, in your wisdom weigh his soul.

  Repay evil with pain and virtue with pleasure.

  Cleanse his wrongs with suffering

  Until he is fit to dwell in your perfection forever.

  Thirty-Three

  Elkan arrived in the dining hall halfway through the evening meal. He took the seat beside Josiah and beckoned for one of the servants to bring him a plate. Tobi settled at his feet, her haunches pressing against Josiah’s leg. Josiah reached down to scratch behind her ears and slip her a slice of meat.

  Elkan dug into his food. Josiah swallowed a mouthful and leaned toward him. “How did it go?”

  “As I hoped. We showed Keeper Emirre how Nirel and Davon planned their deception. And Kevessa explained how Yoran forced her and Nina to fake their performance. He was relieved to discover it was all trickery. He’s convinced now that the Purifiers’ document isn’t authentic.” He paused to take a bite of herbed vegetables. “Actually, I’m inclined to think it is. At least, it corresponds closely enough to a passage in the first History that I suspect it really was written by Jashon Elero. But I certainly didn’t tell Emirre that!” He grinned at Josiah.

  Josiah chuckled. Thank the Mother Elkan was in a good mood. He took the opportunity to broach the topic of his own busy afternoon. “By the way, master, you won’t believe who showed up right after you left…”

  Elkan sobered as he listened to Josiah’s account, but he seemed approving. He frowned when he heard about Kabos’s condition, but Josiah could tell his displeasure wasn’t for the way he’d handled the situation. His frown deepened when Josiah told him about Nirel’s disappearance, and he reached to fondle Tobi’s ears.

  When Josiah quit talking, Elkan shook his head. “You did well. I know it’s frustrating to deal with the Faithful, but we have no choice but to get used to it.”