Dust and Light

by Carol Berg

  “This would be for a year, I was told.”

  “Perhaps a year. Perhaps two or three. You will not be a prisoner, though leaving before you are ready will carry consequences. Swords half-forged can be dangerous. Nothing insurmountable if you are so determined. That’s all we can say.”

  “There are attractions in your offer, no question,” I said, not wishing to offend men who looked so . . . capable. “But you ask a great commitment on very little information. I need to think on it. I’ve important things I need to do.” Like exploring the mystery of my power. Like pursuing the Path of the White Hand; my only family now lived, I believed, at the other end of it.

  “You’ve no time to think on it,” said the man in the brown mask. “We’ve come a very long way to fetch you and would prefer not to be locked up in this city to starve or die. Choose now. If you refuse, we ride away and you’ll not see us again.”

  Annoyance flared. “And the one who sent you will plague my friends. Do you execute his threats as well as his invitations?”

  The raven man shrugged. “We know naught of him. The Marshal heeded a recommendation of you as one who will fit well with our Order. Our standards are very high and very particular.”

  I should just dismiss them, and yet . . . I delayed again. “What Order? And where is this house of learning?”

  The black-masked man laughed—a hearty, honest laugh. “If you decide to go, it doesn’t matter. If you don’t, we prefer to keep ourselves private.”

  That made sense. I walked away a few steps and crouched beside one of the hummocks—the grave of an unknown. A man stood in the open gateway of Necropolis Caton, shielding his eyes from the sun as if watching for someone. No way could he see us, deep in the shadow of the wall as we were. The man’s shape, his coloring . . . could it be Bastien? Fascinated, I watched as he climbed up the iron gates and mounted something on the tallest spike. He jumped down and vanished inside. The gates slammed shut behind him.

  I squinted. It was a very long way. The object on the spike looked like a head, or perhaps it was only that heads had been mounted on gate spikes for a very long time. Or perhaps . . .

  How better to warn me away than to spike my other head, the leather mask, on his gate? A laugh bubbled up from inside me, only to die again as quickly. Perhaps it was a sign that I was no longer welcome. I hated to think someone had told my necropolis family about Gilles and Pons, that Bastien might think I had succumbed to petty revenge.

  But of course, my embarrassments were unimportant. My only refuge was now barred to me. And even if it weren’t, I had to keep away to protect those inside. Running on my own was a daunting prospect. But I was ignorant, not stupid. And perhaps I could keep from starving by drawing portraits, even without magic. Aye, there was the dilemma. How would I learn anything without magic?

  What if Pons’s talk of hopes and the future was sincere? Damon had said that honor mattered. Magic mattered. Now that I was aware of the risk, was it possible I could hold back whatever consent would allow them to manipulate me?

  I was flummoxed. Perhaps after a night’s sleep I could weigh such a choice. Perhaps when I was no longer addled from altered portraits and traitorous curators, imaginary rats and spiders, and sending my sister away to who knew where.

  “Choose!” A firm thwup punctuated the hawk man’s command. A dagger with an engraved hilt was buried in the earth beside my knee. “If you would come, cut your palm and offer a blood vow, agreeing to abide by the terms we have described. If you refuse, walk away.”

  The dagger’s hilt was engraved white on black, in a pattern. . . .

  I snatched up the knife. The engraving was an archer’s quiver with five disparate objects poking out of it—a staff, a sword, a whip, a hammer, and a pen. Not a tree, not a hand, but indeed five branches, white on black.

  “Is this the blazon of your order?” I said, excitement pricking me awake.

  “It is.” They spoke together.

  I offered a brief prayer that I was not the lunatic others might name me, and then I stood and wiped the blade on my shirt. An icy sting, and I offered the knife and my bloody palm to the hawk man.

  The ancient ritual brought Oldmeg and Demetreo to mind. I hoped these people were as honorable. My own honor must bend and my submission remain incomplete. I would reserve my own will past the swearing; too many enemies were waiting for me to slip. But if this was a step along the Path of the White Hand, I had to follow it.

  The hawk man cut his own palm and grasped mine. No smirk of triumph, no gleam of avarice marred his solemnity. “Dallé cineré.” Aurellian words: From the ashes.

  I responded. “I swear to abide by these two terms you have set: to set aside the concerns of my life and abide by the discipline of your house as well as I am able. On my family name and blood, on our holy gifts, on the lines of magic unbroken, I swear it. Witness my oath, great Deunor, Lord of Fire and Magic. Witness my truth, mighty Erdru, Lord of Vines.”

  And then I prayed the gods’ forgiveness in advance for the myriad ways I planned to interpret as well as I am able.

  I had scarce reclaimed my hand when the raven man raised his. “One more step of our rite,” he said. “To accept your swearing, I must lay hands on your head.”

  Before I could think, his large, callused hands lay cool and firm on my temples. They felt solid, substantial. Exhaustion had left me half dizzy.

  “Speak your name,” he said.

  “My name is—Magrog’s balls!” His fingers might have been spikes and the slight pressure of his hands a mason’s hammer driving them into my skull. I tried to swipe his arms aside, but the slightest movement drove the spikes even deeper.

  The bright morning went gray. The circling crows paused in their flight, the sun in its passage.

  “Wait!” I cried. Drawings, faces, images, names fluttered like pages torn from a precious book and set flying by a raging wind. As each swept past, I tried to grasp it, but it disintegrated in a shower of dust. I sank to my knees because I could not both stand and reach so deep all at once, and I inhaled great gulps of air because surely breath must be swept away with the dust of my life. . . .

  * * *

  “Tyro!” Someone tapped my cheek. “Stand up. At least lift your head so we can give you a drink.”

  Impossible to obey. My head felt like an anvil, my eyelids like cold lead. I could scarce summon a thought.

  The hand lifted my chin and pressed a flask to my lips. Water . . . blessed divinities! I guzzled like a thirsting hound. Rude to take so much. Did he have more?

  “They said he’d had a bad evening already and a night on the run,” said a second man, “and that was hours ago.” An unrefined voice. One that grated on the ear. “I’m thinking his state didn’t improve in the hours since.”

  “Come, tyro, we must be going. We’ve a month’s journeying ahead of us, and first we must get through this ham-handed prince’s siege. Of all the inconvenient times for a war. The ungifted have a habit of bollixing important work.”

  Strong hands raised me to my feet. I swayed like a drunkard, but the man in the black mask did not let me fall. “We’ve brought a mount for you. Are you a capable rider? Our informant didn’t know.”

  “Rider . . . horses . . .” I blotted my wet chin on my sleeve. “Yes. I think so.” A stupid answer. But then I felt exceptionally dull just now. Surely I’d ridden a horse, but for the life of me I couldn’t say for certain, much less when or where. Tyro, they called me. Beginner.

  “Did I fall and hit my head?” I laced my fingers in my hair.

  “A fall, yes, in a way. But you’re quite well. You’ll feel foggy for a few days. By the time we reach Fortress Evanide, the headaches should be gone.” He slapped me on the back. “You are a new man, tyro. With work you will make a new life.”

  I could use some renewal. Dirty, battered, tired, head throbbing, my odd clothes torn and bloody. And hungry. Gods save me, how long had it been since I’d eaten? A glance around looked none to
o promising. An ill odor came from the temple or whatever it was across the field of hummocks.

  “What is this place? I could use a bath and a meal.”

  “Unlikely to find either close by,” said the brown-masked man. “Only dead men get bathed beyond those gates—and then they’re burnt or buried. Don’t know why we were told to meet you in such a place.”

  “I can’t say, either,” I said, uneasy when I turned my thoughts inward and found such a muddle. A deadhouse. What was I doing here? “Perhaps we could go.”

  “Here, before we go. Your new mask. And we’ve a clean shirt and jaque that will be better for traveling.”

  I ripped off the ill-fitting layers gladly and tossed my old mask on the slot gate in the wall behind me. The shirt was good linen. Not elegant, not new, but clean and comfortable. The leather jaque was too big, but it didn’t stink of smoke and old sweat.

  I felt a fool. My fingers trembled as I laced the jaque. Every time I tried to think what I was doing, the dull throb in my head got worse. The gray mask, though . . . to slip it on and feel its edges form themselves to my features—both sides of my face—was soothing. A full mask of good linen. It felt right.

  A belt and knife sheath. Lastly, gloves, sturdy leather. Soft on my sore hands.

  “And one more thing before we go.” The raven-haired man looped a black cord around my neck. “Tuck this inside your shirt. ’Tis the blazon of the Equites Cineré and must remain private, but we’ll be able to find you if you should wander off.”

  Equites Cineré—Knights of the Ashes. The name meant nothing. You’d think I would know my comrades.

  Suspended from the black cord was an engraved pendant. It was a rectangular stone, intaglio, a thin layer of black over white, so that the engraving showed white against an ebon field. Portrayed was a quiver, five disparate objects poking out of it: a staff, a sword, a whip, a hammer, and a pen. The device, the same as on the knife strapped to my belt, was new to me. Yet it felt reassuring in a way. I slipped it inside my shirt. “I’m ready,” I said.

  The hawk man brought up the three horses. I mounted with ease—I had certainly done this before—and the three of us rode out into the bright morning. Surely a brisk ride would clear my head. Enticing, exhilarating, the path stretched out ahead of me.