She went across to Kieri’s bedchamber, where he was just dressing. “A Kuakgan has come.”
“A Kuakgan? I wonder why.” He twitched his shoulders, settling the mail shirt he still wore under his clothes, then reached for his tunic.
“Dorrin and I … she thought one might help us find the poison, since the elves didn’t. We tried to call one.”
“Good idea,” Kieri said. “We’d better go down, then, and welcome him—or is it her?”
“Are there women Kuakkgani?”
“Yes. I haven’t met one, but I’ve heard.”
They went downstairs to find the Kuakgan standing in the hall, looking around while the steward and two King’s Squires watched.
“He says you called him,” the steward said to Arian.
“I did,” she said. “With Dorrin’s help.”
“I am Master Oakhallow,” the man said. He did not bow, but inclined his head. “I have met you before, O king, if you remember.”
“I do,” Kieri said.
“This is my semblance,” Oakhallow said. “Do not try to touch me; it will vanish if you do. This was quicker than coming in the body, and I can learn what you need. Tell me why you called me.”
Kieri gestured to the others, and they left the passage so Arian could speak privately to Oakhallow.
Arian explained as simply as she could. Oakhallow’s semblance appeared to listen intently. When she had finished, he nodded. “It is likely a Kuakgan could help—I have some suspicion what might have been used, though not who used it. However, you need a Kuakgan’s presence, not a semblance. There are other Kuakkgani nearer to you; they will come.”
“They?”
“More than one person was injured; it will likely take more than one to untangle this.” The semblance—so real that Arian was sure she saw its shadow and its impression on the carpet—bowed. “I must go. Help is on the way; you and the others will have joy in the future.” The semblance turned and walked away: out the entrance, down the steps, across the courtyard, no one hindering.
Arian turned to Kieri. “I … don’t know what to think.”
“Nor I. But I feel more at ease. Help will come. That’s better than anything my grandmother said.”
A few hours later, when the rain had eased and watery sunlight made the pavement gleam, the steward announced another Kuakgan, this one a woman. Arian went down the steps to meet her. This one—shorter by a head than Arian and broader—wore the same kind of green-and-brown patterned robe, carried a staff in her heart-hand and in addition had a large satchel slung over her shoulder.
“I’m Pearwind,” she said. “The taig has told me of trouble here and the need for tree-shepherds.”
“You know Master Oakhallow?” Arian asked.
“Root to root,” Pearwind said. “Though I have not been to his Grove. I wander, and so I have the name of wind; those with groves do not. Children dying, is it? And you are part-elven, I see.”
“Yes,” Arian said to both questions. “Children unborn, all within a few days. We think it was a poison in our food.”
“Are all the mothers part-elven?”
“I don’t know,” Arian said. “Does it matter?”
Pearwind nodded. “Elves are susceptible to some poisons that do not affect humans, and the same is true of humans. Some poisons affect both. I will need to see all the women.” Clouds were shifting overhead, moving apart. A shaft of sun brightened on them; to Arian’s surprise, Pearwind’s staff suddenly sprouted leaves and flowers … and then she realized the woman’s hand had also turned green … and bees came, humming around the woman’s head, settling into the flowers on the staff. “Oh dear,” Pearwood said. “My kuakvaduonê would not be pleased about this.”
“Kuakvaduonê?” Arian asked. She could think of nothing else to say, watching more and more bees stream in to cover the flowers … an entire swarm, it looked like. She could feel the taig trembling with excitement beneath the courtyard stones.
“Treeleader … teacher? She who made me Kuakgan and taught me. Sun … spring … it went to my staff …” Now the woman had a wreath of flowers on her head, and her robe no longer looked like green cloth with embroidered leaf shapes but like a robe of moss. A fern uncurled from her shoulder. “It’s my first spring since—” Her lips sprouted tiny red mushrooms as her cheeks bloomed—sprays of flowers fell down past her neck.
Two more Kuakkgani came briskly through the palace gate. “We’re here, miesiga masica,” one said. And to Arian: “Do not touch her, lady; she needs our help.”
Arian was not tempted to touch a woman so obviously turning into a pear tree. The Kuakkgani—one man, one woman—clasped hands around the first and sang in a language Arian did not know. Slowly but steadily, the flowers and leaves receded, first from her face, then from her hair and her arm … Her robe no longer seemed moss, and finally her staff returned to bare wood, except for the swarm of bees. The male Kuakgan reached out his staff and hummed; the swarm edged over onto his staff. He looked at Arian.
“You have a garden here? Are there any empty skeps?”
“I don’t know,” Arian said. “I’ll ask.”
“Show me the largest garden,” he said. Arian led the way; at the far end of the kitchen garden, a row of skeps housed the palace bees. The palace beekeeper quickly fetched an empty skep from storage and set it up. The Kuakgan sang the bees into their new home, bowed to the beekeeper, and turned to Arian. “Master Oakhallow said you had need.”
“Yes,” Arian said. She explained again.
“I will make certain that Pearwind is settled, and then we will see the women.”
“What happened to her?” Arian asked. She was still not sure she’d seen what she’d seen.
“It is her first spring after becoming a Kuakgan,” he said. “She has never dealt with rising sap before.” He gave Arian a sideways glance. “And she will not want to talk about it.”
Once they were back inside, the older woman, who named herself Larchwind, lifted a small furry ball from her satchel.
“It’s a pin-pig,” she said, setting it down on the carpet, where it lay still for a moment. “They don’t like to be held, but they’re helpful in finding poison, which you suspect, I understand.”
“Yes,” Arian said. As the little animal uncurled and stood, it did have a vaguely pig-shaped body, though no larger than a kitten in size. Pale spines lifted from red-brown fur. After a bit, it minced about the room on tiny feet, its pink nose snuffling busily. “I’ve never seen one.”
“They’re rare outside Dzordanya. Now—tell me your symptoms, please.”
Arian did so, all the while watching the pin-pig quarter the room. Finally it came back to the Kuakgan, let out a high-pitched squeak-grunt, and lay down with its nose on the Kuakgan’s boot. She leaned over, picked it up, and returned it to her satchel.
“It’s not in the carpet,” Larchwind said. “I didn’t think it was, but she enjoys running about. Now—I will need to touch your hand.” Arian nodded and held out her hand. Larchwind used her heart-hand, she noticed. After a moment, Larchwind sat back. “A plant, definitely, but your body has refused nearly all of it. I expect we’ll find the same for the others.”
They went downstairs and met the other Kuakkgani and Kieri just coming into the kitchen; the cooks and other kitchen workers were all wide-eyed, and more so when Larchwind set the pin-pig on the floor.
“She is clean and will cause no damage,” Larchwind said. “But her nose is sensitive—more than ours—and she may find something we would not. Do not fear.”
The pin-pig trotted around the main kitchen and, with Larchwind crooning to it, investigated each pantry and storeroom, one after another. The other two Kuakkgani touched wooden bowls and utensils—“listening to the wood,” they told the cooks when asked. When they’d left the main kitchen, the head cook sent her helpers back to work.
The pin-pig’s sustained squeal interrupted everyone. Kieri, Arian, and the head cook, along with the
other two Kuakkgani, hurried to find Larchwind and the pin-pig.
The pin-pig stood in a corner of the spice pantry, all spines bristling out, little nose pointed upward. Larchwind, humming, was touching first one shelf, then another. Arian breathed deeply; mingled fragrances of spices and herbs tingled in her nose.
“What’s all this?” Kieri asked the cook, waving around the small room.
“All things we season with,” the cook said. “Jars down there are sauces and pickles and such, and then up on the shelves are the dry things—roots, barks, leaves, seeds and nuts and buds and stalks—once they’ve dried. Some dry in sun, some in here out of the sun. Everything in its place; I won’t have a jumble, sir king. Some must be stored in wooden boxes—the right kind of wood—and some in stone and some in clay, and some must lie open.”
“Where do they all come from?”
“Mostly from the garden and the royal forest, but some are bought from far or as gifts.”
“This, I think,” Larchwind said. She lifted a narrow box with a carved lid and held it down to the pin-pig, whose spines flattened, then erected again. “Thank you,” Larchwind said to the pin-pig. It was silent and after a moment curled up in a ball. Larchwind scooped it up in her free hand and slipped it into her satchel again.
“But it’s—it’s the farron. Farron’s not a poison.” The cook looked ready to faint.
Larchwind opened the box. Inside were two compressed lumps and a tangle of strands, all a rich magenta at first glance. “Farron, right enough … but not just farron. Look here—” She took out one of the lumps. Originally shaped in a rectangular block, one end had been broken off—and there, in the middle of the exposed break, was a streak of lighter color.
“That’s … that’s not right,” the cook said. “It should be the same all through unless it’s gone bad. But farron doesn’t go bad; it keeps for years, and we’re careful. You can see by the box there’s been no moisture in it.”
“Do you know where this came from?” Kieri asked the cook.
“Not exactly,” the cook said. “As I told Lady Halveric when she asked, so much came in before the wedding, from so many people. I remember the steward bringing it down: there were four cakes of farron, a very expensive gift. They looked best quality, untouched—you can see here, on the outside, the color, the smooth surface. They were dry, or I swear I wouldn’t have kept them, expensive as they are.”
“What is that other color?” Kieri asked Larchwind.
“Not farron,” she said, frowning. “It’s melfar, related to farron but not safe to eat. It’s known to cause sheep and cattle to lose their young.”
“Could someone have gathered the wrong one by mistake? Do they grow together? Look alike?”
“No, sir king. Though related, the flowers are a different color, and they are never found in the same place. More to the point, you see that the melfar is hidden, wrapped round with the purple farron.”
“So … it was intentional.”
“It must have been,” Larchwind said. She turned to the cook. “Have you ever seen melfar or its flower parts?”
“No, but I’ve heard of it. I know farron is always purple-red.”
“You said there were four cakes of it,” Kieri said to the cook. “Did you use the other cakes in the wedding foods?”
“Yes, sir king … it’s traditional for both spring feasts and weddings, and this was both … I only thought to make it better, I swear—” The cook started sobbing and through her sobs went on: “I—I put a whole cake in the fruit filling for the pastries—for the color and the flavor both—I didn’t see anything wrong with the color, but we were so busy … and another in the steamed grain …”
“I’m not blaming you,” Kieri said. “But we must find out who sent it or—if that person should have transported it innocently—who made it.”
“Melfar is not common,” Larchwind said. “Nor is farron. Whoever made those blocks had to know where both grow, obtain enough of each, and then make the blocks. I suspect—but do not know for certain—that this person gathered the flower parts personally, as farron is expensive.”
The steward looked in his records for anyone who had donated farron. That took hours of poring over the records, donor by donor. Finally he gave Kieri a name. “Only one gift of farron: four blocks of farron were donated along with a barrel of apples by Selmud Granil, a farmer on Sier Tolmaric’s steading.”
“A farmer?” Kieri said. Sier Tolmaric was not the richest of the Siers; those holding a farmstead would have less, and a barrel of apples sounded more reasonable than four cakes of expensive spice.
“Perhaps he carried it in for his Sier,” the steward said.
“I will speak to Sier Tolmaric.”
Sier Tolmaric, summoned to Kieri’s office, stared in apparent shock and dismay. “You think my farmer did what? Selmud? He couldn’t have. First, he couldn’t buy that much farron—he hasn’t the money—and second, he hasn’t been off his land all winter.”
“He came to Chaya with the apples,” Kieri said. “He could have visited the market.”
“I don’t believe it. Do you know what farron costs? He doesn’t have it, I tell you! And if you’re wondering if I sent such a gift: no. I could not afford it either. I sent meat on the hoof for the feast. Bullocks and sheep.”
“Then how—”
“Someone slipped it into Selmud’s contribution without being noticed,” Sier Tolmaric said. “It’s vile, is what it is. Whoever did this was willing to poison many people to harm one.”
Kieri wished he could see the inside of Sier Tolmaric’s head; the man seemed outraged at the poisoning, only reasonably indignant that his farmer had been suspected. Was that true?
“It was the elves,” Tolmaric said. “It must have been. None of your human subjects would do such a thing, sir king. And it’s elves who don’t care about humans—about human children. They’ve not done one thing to help, have they? Just like before. And making sure a human would be blamed—it’s just like when your mother was killed, sir king. Just the same.”
And just what Kieri could expect to hear from Tolmaric after his earlier outbursts about the elves. Tolmaric had reason—or thought he had reason—to dislike and distrust elves. It was true the elves hadn’t offered any help—hadn’t identified the poison, hadn’t shown any interest in doing so. But was that guilt?
“Sier Tolmaric,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, “I know you have long-standing resentment of elves—and a reason for it—but in this present instance, I must be very careful. The gift was listed as coming from your steading and a particular person. I believe you when you say he could not have afforded such a gift; I believe that you yourself had nothing to do with the poisoning. But from your innocence to the guilt of elves is a long, long stride. I am not willing to accuse them. Yet.”
“But you’re our king,” Sier Tolmaric said. “You’re what we hoped for, all those years since your sister died—yes, half-elf, but a man who could—who would—stand up for us. You lived as a human all those years, not influenced by elven magery.” Tolmaric’s expression was pleading, and his hands reached out.
Kieri was still struggling for words to convey to Tolmaric the complexity he himself perceived, when he felt the taig shudder as if it felt a blow. Almost at once, the room filled with the glamour of the elvenhome and the force of the Lady’s anger.
“You invited Kuakkgani!” she said without waiting for a greeting. Waves of power washed toward him; he ignored them. He was aware of Tolmaric standing open-mouthed to one side, and hoped the man would keep silent. “You know what I told you,” the Lady went on. “We do not allow Kuakkgani in this land—they are disgusting!”
“You did not help us find the poison or the poisoner. The Kuakkgani did,” Kieri said. “Our child died, and others as well, and you did nothing.”
“There was nothing to do but grieve,” she said. “The child was already dead.” Her voice had softened a little but still held an arr
ogance that angered him.
“Nothing to do?” Kieri said. “When the Kuakkgani were able to find the poison quickly, to prevent more being poisoned, women whose unborn children would have died if it had not been discovered? If you had been willing to help, others now grieving might have life still within them. But you were not even within call.”
“The Kuakkgani are—” A string of elven he did not understand but for “filthy” and “against the taig.”
“Grandmother,” Kieri said, and paused.
She glared at him but said nothing.
“Let us be clear,” he said. “You are the Lady of the Ladysforest, and where elven matters in the elvenhome are concerned, I have nothing to say. But where humans in Lyonya are concerned, and where my own children are concerned, I am the king, and I will choose what seems best to me. You knew about the poison and the grief we felt. You offered no advice; you offered scant comfort. Thus I did not seek your opinion and do not seek it now.”
“But they are—”
“They have found the source of the poison: someone put cakes of farron mixed with melfar among the gifts brought for the wedding feast.”
“Melfar!”
“I see you know what it is.”
“Yes … but who? Who brought it? What grudge do they have against you?”
“The person among whose other gifts it was listed did not—could not—have brought it. Someone else put it with his. We know that much. And we are beginning to suspect what manner of being might have done so.”
“What manner of—you cannot mean you suspect elves!” Her eyes glowed, almost dragon-like, Kieri thought. Her power intensified; Tolmaric crumpled to the floor, hands clutching at his head.
“Are you sure it was not elves?” Kieri asked. “Your own daughter attacked and killed, your grandson stolen away … You must have enemies, Grandmother. Certainly gnomes, and for all I know among the elves, too. Orlith’s murder—”
“That was a human. That must have been a human! Maybe that man!” She pointed at Tolmaric. “He has always hated elves; he probably killed Orlith to keep you from learning more, and he could have poisoned Arian and the other women to blame it on us.”
Echoes of Betrayal Page 50
