by Tim Stead
“I had a lover once,” he said. His eyes did not leave the fire. It was almost as though he was speaking to himself. “She died.”
Felice did not know what to say. She had heard stories, of course, but one never quite knew what was truth and what was myth with Serhan. His story had been reinvented so many times.
“She killed herself.”
She sat very still. He still felt the pain of that loss. It was in his voice, damping it down as though he spoke from beneath the surface of some private reservoir of grief, muting it until it was barely more than a whisper. So quiet a voice was less likely to betray, to crack beneath the weight of memory. He stayed in the past for a long moment his eyes looking far beyond the fire, and then they focussed again. He lifted his head.
“On the table,” he said. “You see the small bottle?”
She looked, and picked it up. It was a tiny thing, no more than the length of her smallest finger. Through the thin glass she could see a number of small spheres, pills, little grey pills.
“What are they?” She asked.
“Poison; deadly and fast acting. It seems painless, and takes about a minute to kill. The Shan will tell me what it is, I expect, but it doesn’t matter. It’s the same poison that killed Mai, my lover.”
“The same? Are you sure? Where did you find it?” The questions tumbled out. She halted them, feeling gauche, and waited. She would hear what he wanted her to hear.
“They’re all dead,” he said. “Except for Jarrow, who knows nothing, and Haken, who we cannot find. They all took these pills when they realised they had been caught. All of them, just like Mai.”
All dead? That meant the landlord, the woman who had served her the drugged meal, and many more. Probably everyone who worked at the tavern was part of it, either completely, or ignorantly serving their ends, like Jarrow. So many dead, and by their own hands. It was not something that she could have believed possible. The degree of dedication to a cause that you would give your life so easily was hard to understand. All dead. All but one, she realised. Not the leader, not the man in the hood who whispered to conceal his voice. That one would still be alive.
“I had not heard,” she said. “What does it mean?”
“She was part of something, Mai I mean, a group of people opposed to the Faer Karan. They were working to the same end as I, or so they thought. Their leader was someone I had known when I was a boy, trained as I had been trained, but he had given up, reached the conclusion that there was no way to win. His solution was to provoke Gerique to wipe out as many as possible, to deprive the Faer Karan of humanity, of their toys. I killed him.” He shrugged. “It was self defence, I suppose. He struck the first blow. He intended to kill me.”
“These people were the same group?” She could not guess why he was confiding in her, treating her as a trusted aide.
“I have to assume it. I thought they would be dissolved, disbanded. After all, there are no more Faer Karan, and men now rule men. What purpose can they have?”
“One of them, the landlord, I think, used to term usurper. He meant you.”
“Usurper?” Because I maintain the power of the Faer Karan, sit in the seat they once occupied? Whatever, it seems that they have grown in strength, spread out, become more organised. I will have to look into it.”
She waited. He reached out and took a sip from a cup that stood beside him. His face seemed drawn, his arm heavy.
“We are quite different, you and I,” he said after a while. She did not reply. The statement did not seem to require an answer. “And yet so similar. They gave me a name, too. The Shan – just as they gave you a name.”
“An error, my lord,” she said. He seemed not to hear her. He did not look up, but continued to stare into the cold hearth.
“Keshte Moru,” he said. “Do you know what it means?”
“No, my lord.”
“Death’s Enemy,” he said. “It means Death’s Enemy.” He paused. “Actually that is a bad translation. The word Keshte is a difficult one. In the old literature it is often used to refer to friends or competitors. I can do better than enemy. Something like: ‘the one who keeps death honest’. Yes, that is better.”
“It means little then?”
“On the contrary, it is most apposite,” Serhan said, raising his eyes to meet hers. “Think about it for a moment. You insisted that Jarrow be spared. He is little more than a thug, and one who was tasked with your death, and yet you would not see him die. Then there is Karnack, a killer who took your brother’s life, who scarred your face, and yet you would not see him die. Your friends benefit also. Ennis Sabra would be dead if not for you; Tann and Pasha would be dead if not for you. It is a theme that runs through your tale. It begins with a death, your brother, and then, from that time, life wins over death.”
“But not for Kalnistine.” The words were out quickly, before she could think to hold them back. She could not help but remember that death, and believed that it would stay with her for ever. Would Serhan understand sympathy for a monster? He seemed not to take offence.
“True, not for Kalnistine, but I’d wager that even his death went against the grain.”
Felice said nothing. What he said was true enough. She had hated seeing the Faer Karani die. It had seemed such a waste of life. Yet again Serhan allowed the silence to extend. He lowered his eyes once more to the fire, and she wondered why she had been summoned; surely not for this maudlin conversation?
“They call me Frateri Moru – Death’s Brother. It is a compliment, apparently, and indicates that I am the father of a new age. Death’s brother is life, so they say, but in many ways I have been a better friend to death. We were both foretold, you and I. It is why we have such names.”
“Foretold?” Repeating the world seemed pointless, but she was startled that anyone would bother to foretell anything about her.
“Yes. They were expecting you. I don’t really understand Shanish prophecy, but it seems that they expect a figure to arise but can never say who it will be, or quite when. A number of individuals can fill the vacancy, but only one of them ever does, and they grow more certain of the details as the time approaches.”
“Why would anyone expect me?”
“We will get to that,” he smiled. It was an indulgent smile. Serhan’s spirits seemed quite recovered from the melancholy of just a few moments ago, but that was not really possible. It was a mask, she realised, behind which he dwelled constantly.
“You wonder why you are here.” It was a statement.
“Yes, my lord.”
“You wonder why I confide these private things to you.”
“Indeed.”
“It is because you are one of the five.”
“The five?” For a moment it meant nothing to her, and she knew that it should. He was watching her like a parent watching a child opening a present. Five? Five What? It came to her suddenly. Five students. Five chosen to train in the ways of magic. Five new Mage Lords.
“It is a mistake, my lord,” the words came out in a rush, almost as though the phrase had been waiting to be spoken. She was embarrassed. This all went back to that silly Mataga thing on the ship from Yasu when she’d had the fever.
“There is no mistake, Felice.”
“But you have not tested me,” she protested. “The candidates were all interviewed, you have not…” The words died on her lips. It was all an interview, she realised. Everything she had seen and done and said. All of it was watched and noted. “I have no talent for it,” she finished weakly.
Serhan laughed. “Please allow me to explain something, Felice,” he said. “Magic obeys laws. It is nothing more than the manipulation of power by the will of an individual, but all individuals differ in their ability. You can divide magical talent, as you call it, into two basic components. I will call them strength and art. Strength is innate, and cannot be taught. Imagine it is like a pipe through which water flows. The size of the pipe limits the amount of water that can flow, and
so it is with magic. To wield great power one must have the capacity for it. Art can be taught, but again it is not entirely so. In much the same way as any dullard can be shown how to scrape a fiddle with a bow, so anyone with strength can be taught art to a certain extent, but it requires intelligence and delicacy to master it.”
“I do not see…”
“Hush. Let me finish.” Serhan sipped from his cup again. “We heard, of course, the tales of the weather witch who saved the ship. It was a tale, and we set little store by it, but because the search had begun we made note of it. Then we heard the story of your escape from the bandits on the road to White Rock. When we realised it was the same person involved we sent Borbonil to investigate, and he discovered that you held Pathfinder, so the escape was not so remarkable after all. Then at White Rock you were observed, of all things, using Pathfinder at the dining table. This made us very curious, because the knife does not work like that.”
“It does.”
“So you believe, but I have had the chance to examine the blade, and I have understood the spell that created it. Pathfinder is little more than a map with the intelligence of a retarded child. It cannot do the things that you made it do. The magic is not there.”
“But I asked it,” she protested. “I asked if it could find things, and it showed me that it could.”
“Part of you knows the power that you have. It is a part of you that you deny. Tell me that you have not had strange feelings, premonitions, dreams – something that you could not explain.”
She shook her head. “A few dreams, but everyone dreams. They mean nothing.”
“They mean nothing on their own, Felice, but added to what we have seen, what you have done, they take on a great significance. Did you think that the bonds simply came loose when you were held in the tavern, a happy coincidence?”
“But I tried to undo them, to cut them. If I could do it any time I wished, why would I not?”
“You deny your abilities. It is not a conscious thing, but you know that you cannot do things, and so you do not. It is only in anger and desperation that you permit yourself to reach for it. You used the knife to hide your own power.”
“I would know…”
“Not necessarily. You have been creative in your excuses for your miracles, but I have checked each of them, those that have come to my ears, and I can confirm that in each case there has been an exercise of wild magic, untaught and blunt edged for sure, but clearly there. In some cases the power has been most impressive. I know this to be true, Felice Caledon, I will swear to you that it is so if you wish. Do not doubt me.”
She looked at him, saw the naked honesty in his face. He was not lying or joking. He believed. The Mage Lord himself was quite certain that she had magical ability. So it was true? She shook her head.
“It is true,” he said, as though he could read her mind.
“What if I do not wish to be trained?” She clutched at the last hope of her old life, though she could see it was no more than a thin cotton strand waiting to snap.
“You know that it cannot be so.”
She did. Of course she did. Such potential could not be wasted, and even if it could, she would be a danger to herself and others. Her temper could become a weapon more lethal than any sword.
“What will become of me?”
“It is a question that I cannot answer. You will study for a year, but beyond that you may do as you wish. I will ask that you take one of the great fortresses now vacant, if only until you feel otherwise. Perhaps you will take East Scar?”
“I can do as I wish?”
Serhan smiled. “Of course,” he said, leaning forward in his chair, eager to explain. “I am not a tyrant. I acted as I did simply to prevent war. Since Samara Plain I have left Samara to its people. Blaye, Pek, Sarata, all rule themselves. Even among the great places of the north I have allowed much latitude, though many know that their rule is as seneschal, not as master. They know that others will come.”
“They do not resent this?”
“Some do. Some see the sense of it, knowing that the Faer Karan may return.”
“And that is your only purpose, to defend against that return?”
“You think that I want to rule, to be master of the world? Nothing is further from the truth. I am happy here, at White Rock. The people here know me. They trust me, or I hope that they do. We have seen much change together, and they know my heart as no others do. Lord of White Rock is trouble enough, why seek the world?”
“You do not fear the ambition of others?”
“Not yet.” He looked into the fire again, a wry smile on his face. “The Shan tell me that trouble will come of this, of my teaching others what I know, but as usual they are vague and useless. They say that I will be defeated, but undefeated, that I will die but remain alive. Plain language seems beyond them.”
Felice could make no sense of the words. A thing, a man, was either alive or dead. One could not be defeated and yet remain undefeated. No subtlety could make it so. Yet she was troubled. If Serhan were dead, then who would keep the peace? Would it fall to her? To others? She thought of the boys outside, waiting to come in, and Carn.
“The others of the five, they are outside?”
“Yes.”
“Carn?”
“Carn is one of them.”
It was a comfort. She knew Carn, trusted his common sense. At least one of the five would be known to her, and known to be right headed.
“Ella was right,” Serhan said.
“Ella?” Ella Saine was the only Ella that she knew. What had Ella said of her?
“Yes. She said that you were self-invisible. I did not know what she meant by it. It is an odd phrase, but I think it true.”
“So what does it mean?” Felice was annoyed when others judged her, when they seemed to know more about her than she knew herself. It was not uncommon. Her father had called her clever, and she had thought it no more than a sop to cheer her because she was short and dark and weak. Others called her other things: brave, determined, strong; and she did not know where they found such ideas.
“When you look in the mirror you do not see what others see,” Serhan said. “In fact you barely see yourself at all. You see only skin, clothes, hair. There is so much more to Felice Caledon than the surface detail. You seek comfort in Carn, but he will draw more strength from you than you ever shall from him.”
When you look in the mirror you do not see what others see. The phrase caught her mind with the hooks of memory. She had dreamed it, or part of her had dreamed it in one of those dreams that Serhan had termed significant. What did it mean? Had she dreamed the future? Was it a coincidence? There was so much that she did not understand.
“Can I return home first? I have not seen my father in half a year.”
“If you wish, but it will be no more than a farewell. The next time that you see them you will be different. They will never really understand what has happened to you. Even now it will be difficult.”
It was true. Again, what Serhan said was true, though it went against her desires, against what she longed could be so. She had felt it herself, thought it herself, but wished for it not to be true. She was no longer the diffident bookkeeper that had ridden out of East Scar on a wagon so many months ago. She was no longer Todric’s mouse. The time had torn her apart and rebuilt her again. It was no longer the world, or even the plurality of worlds that scared her – it was boredom, inaction, helplessness. She looked into the dead fire, and for a moment she saw there what Serhan must see, the past, happiness, simplicity, all burned away.
She looked at Serhan, met his gaze fully for the first time, and she saw that he understood, and he saw that she understood. Power, real power, is a simple choice between tyranny or duty. Like him, she would choose duty.
“I will stay,” she said.
28. East Scar
Home was no longer home. Returning to a place as a different person made the place seem quite changed, when in
truth it had remained quite constant. Felice Caledon looked out of the window and saw the town of East Scar laid out below her like a map. It seemed small. She had never seen it this way. She had never been in the castle before. The streets spread out like a crooked lattice, a net that followed the curve of the river, and bent to the great walls of the fortress. From here the buildings all seemed impossibly small and unimportant. She could not see her father’s house, though she knew where it lay. It was not within the slice of town that the window revealed. She could see the warehouse, its familiar roof line a single bold stroke above the surrounding buildings.
She stepped back, curiosity barely satisfied, and glanced at Serhan. He waited patiently, standing with his legs slightly apart, a neutral expression on his face, looking about the room in which they stood. It was mostly bare stone, the windows were unglazed, unshuttered, and the fire was not lit. It was cold. She was glad of the heavy woollen coat that she wore.
“Another lesson, Felice,” Serhan said, keeping his voice low so that the guardsman by the door could not hear his words. “We are unexpected, so it will be harder for the seneschal to disguise his emotions. If men are given time to prepare they are often better at concealing their true thoughts.”
They had, as Cal had said, arrived unannounced, stepping through a black door into this antechamber to the great surprise of the guard who stood here. Other guards had been summoned, and one had run off to find the seneschal.
“Enough lessons,” she sighed. “If you have not trained me now you never will.” A year ago she would not have dared even a friendly rebuke, but in that year they had become easy in each other’s company. There was still a distance between them, the gap that separates teacher and pupil, mentor and protégé, but within their established bounds they were friends.
“Remember,” he said, “the seneschal will not welcome you with open arms. He has ruled well, he is popular, and he is a man who cares about his people.”
