Where fire stirred, water stirred also. The third ring, on her ring finger, was fashioned of white-gold. It almost looked as if the band were ice, for frost seemed to have covered the ring as if it were glass in a cold climate. The sapphire looked like the heart of the north wind, but no matter how long she stared at it, she could not see its depth. She stopped trying and turned her gaze to the last ring she had.
For some reason, it drew her attention away from the others, although it was a simple, rounded band, with no gems and no intricate design to mark it. She thought it made of white-gold, at first—but the weight was wrong. Later, she would have it properly identified. If she could find someone willing to do so when she couldn’t take the ring off her finger.
This ring was the fifth that he had spoken of.
She was enough a member of the Order of Knowledge to feel a sharp curiosity. But she shook her head and let her hand fall back to rest against the simple, undyed woolen counterpane.
She had four rings, but she was not concerned; she knew where the fifth was. She had seen it many, many times throughout the years. She had even asked about it once, although Kallandras, at thirty-eight, hadn’t provided her, at twenty, with much of an answer.
No, not true, she thought. A rare and genuine smile of pleasure touched her face in the privacy of her room. He had said, It was the gift of a friend, and you will come to know her well in time.
You would never have said that that eve. What changed you?
“Ah, I see rumors of your alertness aren’t exaggerated this time.” A dark-haired, dark-skinned man entered the room. It was obvious that he was the healer on duty, and equally obvious that he was the senior member of the house. He wore around his neck the open-palmed symbol of the healer-born. Upon his face, he wore an expression of distinct disapproval.
The healer-born could not affect someone suffering from mage-fever. Nothing—be it herb, spell, or potion—could. But there wasn’t a healer alive who could accept that gracefully, or if there was, Evayne hadn’t met her.
“You weren’t terribly careful, this time.”
“No, Levec,” she replied meekly.
“You’re never careful. Never.”
“No, Levec.”
“What’s the excuse? Years ago, you could at least blame it on youth—but you aren’t a child, or even a wayward, serious young woman, anymore—and it seems to me that you are often more severely injured or at risk than you ever were.
“If the young do not gain in wisdom as they age, what sort of example are they?” His fingers rapped the bedpost as he spoke, and his brows, which were lovely and thick, drew down into a single, fierce line. Levec was not a man who appeared, at first glimpse, to be of the healing persuasion. Nor, for that matter, at any glimpse.
The path had a cruel sense of humor at times; Evayne, exhausted but recovering, could do nothing to stem the flow of the healer’s pointed tirade.
• • •
She knew that Espere survived, because she had seen her, years ago, in the otherwhen—an older woman, if no less dangerous. She didn’t know how she had managed to escape the cathedral in Vexusa; “how” was often the single question that she hadn’t the luxury of asking.
Well, forest sister, I hope you found what you hunted; with your aid, I found what haunted me. Light bubbled in the ball she held between her palms. The room itself was dark; the curtains drawn, the door closed. It was a pity that it couldn’t be locked, because she desired no interruption. The use of the ball often made her more vulnerable.
And if Healer Levec saw it, he would almost certainly feel compelled to attempt to remove it from her keeping—a task which would see them both involved in . . . too severe a disagreement.
Don’t push, Evayne. You’ve been here for a week already—you can’t afford more time.
But ignoring her own advice was a habit of youth—one that she had not entirely lost with wisdom and experience. She searched the mists again and again, but they gave her no answers.
They did give her another glimpse of Stephen of Elseth. He was fighting with his huntbrother—did they do nothing but argue?—over the apportioning of a hunt’s kill. Youth robbed his features of their ability to sting. He was fair-haired, slender of build, and graceful in carriage—but he was not yet adult, even if he hovered on the brink.
She watched him for a while before sleep took her away from the vision.
And it was in sleep that her answer came.
The ball was a deliberate use of her birthright. She summoned the mists and the strands of her soul’s history, her soul’s light, and they came. They bore her examination, if not willingly. Not all seers were gifted with the creation of such a ball. Evayne thought she might be the only living seer to walk the Oracle’s path, although in the distant past, those seer-born had made the trek to the Oracle’s hidden testing ground as a matter of course. If one could survive the Oracle’s path, the Oracle would create the soul-crystal. If one died, it was no longer necessary. Many had died.
But before they walked the Oracle’s path, they knew themselves seer-born because of their dreams and their visions. The dreams of the seer had a texture and a reality that a return to the waking world could not force one to surrender.
She had such a dream now.
It was brief, but unmistakable. In it, two men she did not recognize met in a well appointed room. One appeared to be a messenger; he handed the older gentleman a scroll. Their conversation had no bearing on the information it contained.
It wasn’t important to hear their words; they were obvious. For one of these men wore a symbol of the Order of Knowledge—a bad sign, but not, unfortunately, a unique deviation. The other man wore, seared into his left ear, the mark of the chalice.
The mark of the Kovaschaii.
Their discussion was irrelevant; the name of the target was never spoken. But in the seer’s vision, warped and guided by an unknown twist of fate, a face was superimposed, like a ghost, over the two men.
It was Stephen’s face. He wore a green cape, Hunter’s green, with gold, gray, and brown edges, and a cap that covered his hair and shadowed his face. The cap itself was embroidered with a crest: against a field of green, a sword, crossed over a spear, beneath the horns of a stag in full season.
He was fourteen.
She woke with a start; the ball was already clasped between her palms. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but sleep had provided her with the answer that had proved so elusive during her waking hours.
You never take me anywhere without a reason. Her hands were shaking. With determination, she began to search the mists of the now for sight of Kallandras. Think, Evayne. What did the crest mean? When is it?
• • •
The ring was made of gilded crystal. On his hand, it seemed to fade into nothing but a diamond’s flash in the right movement of light. It was a marvel of craftsmanship, with a history that rivaled that of his—of the Kovaschaii. It was the only piece of jewelry that he had ever worn outside of the ceremonies of the brotherhood.
It would not come off of his finger. He had only tried to remove it once, and even then only for curiosity’s sake. It was not small—indeed, it fit him as if crafted for his use—but it would not budge. It remained on the thumb of his right hand.
And that was of significance to the brotherhood’s ceremonies. On that finger, he had worn, for the minutes of the calling, the ring of the Lady. By it bound, he made his oaths.
His right hand became a fist. He stared at his thumb, seeing, through the crystal, another ring, donned in a smoke-wreathed, darkened hall. His eyes grew opaque in the seeing. It was the one memory that any of the Kovaschaii could call at will—for it was the ceremony that made them one with the brotherhood, and no longer separate from it.
Light flashed; he stiffened and raised his left hand to shield his eyes. The diamond, large and well-mounte
d, had obviously caught a flicker of sunlight.
Eyes watering, he shook his head and relaxed both hands. Evayne waited for him in the house of healing in the northwestern quarter on Lowell Street near the boardwalk. He didn’t know who she would be, this time. He had seen her very young and very old; she was never quite the same person as the woman who had forced him from the Kovaschaii almost four years ago.
He looked at the ring, swallowed, and started to whistle as he walked in a jaunty, purposeful way. The whole of his body was a mask right up to his calm, still eyes.
• • •
“I’m sorry, sir,” Kallandras said, for perhaps the hundredth time.
“Her brother, are you?” Levec’s raised brow bordered on open disbelief, but he shook his head. “Well, I guess you’d have to be.”
“Have to be?”
“If I weren’t of the same family, I’d never claim her as blood-kin.” He led the young man down the hall to the steps, and then began to climb them. “But I don’t recall Evayne ever giving a family name.”
Kallandras shrugged. “She’s the boss.” It was as close to truth as he’d yet come.
Levec raised a brow again. “Not,” he said darkly, “in this house, she isn’t. She’s not well enough to travel—so if you’ve got any intention of taking her with you, I’d strongly advise you to think again.”
“Yes, Healer Levec,” Kallandras replied. He opened the door. “Evvie—you are here!”
“Evvie” raised a brow in a fashion that made her look quite similar, for a passing moment, to Healer Levec. “You took your time,” she finally said dryly. “Are you going to stand there warming the door?”
“You’ve got an hour, because I’m feeling generous. Don’t abuse it. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, Levec.”
“Good.” He was not a rude man, and left them to their discussion, drawing the door firmly shut behind him.
Kallandras half-expected to hear the door lock at their backs. He tensed, and then relaxed when Levec’s heavy tread took him away from the door. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Healer Levec quite so . . .”
“He doesn’t approve of my condition,” Evayne replied. Then she sat up in bed, straightening her shoulders and raising her chin. It’s good to see you, she wanted to say. But she didn’t. Kallandras was still young and still very angry.
She watched as all show of friendliness slowly fell away from his face. It took a few seconds, but she always found it disconcerting. One instant he was alive with the gestures and habits of life, be it rural, urban, courtly—and the next, he was one of the Kovaschaii, cold and distant in his disdain for the lives that he could so effortlessly mimic—and take. “You summoned me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I have to ask you a few questions.”
“Ask.”
“Why don’t you take that chair and pull it up.”
He did as she asked; he often did. He could follow a command to the letter, yet still radiate an aura of hostility. Or contempt. “Ask,” he repeated, as he sat, placing his hands casually in his lap.
“If you were Kovaschaii—”
He lifted a hand; his right hand. “I will not answer questions about the brotherhood. You know this, Evayne.”
“It’s not a specific question.”
“It’s a question. Of yours. I will not answer it.”
“Very well. You know me—not as well now as you probably will in the future. Tell me what my chances against you would be if you were sent to kill.”
“Kill who?”
“Anyone.”
“Evayne—”
“Let me make it clearer. I would know, in advance, who the victim would be.”
“Impossible,” he said flatly. “You could not know.”
“Just answer the question.”
“If you knew, your chances would be better than if you didn’t. But I wouldn’t say they’d be high. Against what you fight, Evayne, we are not sent. You wouldn’t be at your strength if you chose to fight me.”
“No,” she said quietly, and turned away.
“Is that all?” He rose.
“No,” she said again. “I have a mission for you.”
“And it is?”
“Go to Breodanir. Be there for the Sacred Hunt.”
“The what?”
“The Sacred Hunt; it is the festival of the greatest import to the Breodani, and one of their number is always killed in it. It occurs, without fail, on First Day, although preparations leading up to it start weeks in advance. Go to the King’s City, and there you will be able to find out all that you need.”
“That is the whole of your order?”
“No. There will be a boy there. Stephen of Elseth. He must be protected against any threat. Tell him—tell him that I sent you.” Her voice dropped, but she did not turn to face Kallandras. Instead, she waited.
“Evayne.” She heard him rise. He pulled the chair slightly on purpose, because when he chose to be, he was completely silent.
“Yes?” She stared at her hands. The room was suddenly too small for both them and their memories.
“Your question. Why did you ask it?”
She didn’t answer.
“Evayne.”
She wouldn’t answer.
It was answer enough for Kallandras. She heard the door open and close with force before she turned to look. Kallandras was Kovaschaii, and even young, he hated to show emotion.
Will you do it, Kallan? Will you do as I direct? She raised her palms to her cheeks and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the silver-misted walls of the path rose to her right and left. She did not turn back, but a smile helped to erase some of the lines from her face.
Healer Levec was going to be most angry.
• • •
Kallandras the bard sat in the darkness of the empty theater, his harp in his lap. His lute was at his side; he always traveled with both. The wind from the sea was moist and cool in the open stands.
Two hours ago, the stands had been full. Every eye in the audience was turned toward him; reckless, he had used a touch of the voice to assure that. The stage lights, protected by large shells, cast a glow beneath him. At times like this, surrounded by light, he could almost forget his loss.
Music helped. The old lays, with their history and their grim tales of sacrifice to duty, were both a goad and a balm. But words, while they had their lovely cadences and intrinsic harmonies, were not necessary. The lute and the harp in isolation had their tales to tell, their sorrows to speak of.
Without words, he let his music weep for him. He offered the audience, in their ignorance, his fear, his self-loathing, and his final determination. He knew it disturbed them, but he had to release his burden—and no member of the brotherhood would now stand to witness or comfort the only member, in all of the Kovaschaii’s long history, to betray them. Sioban might ask about his concert choices, but he doubted it. After the musical play, he had once again returned to the more traditional performance arts.
The audience offered him their left hands, palm out—a gesture of the highest approval. He accepted it gracefully and then melted into the stands to better hear the next performer. Two hours after the end of the set, both audience and performer were gone. He remained.
How could she ask this of him? His fingers strummed the strings of the harp rhythmically, seeking solace, not answers. He shifted the smooth, unornamented frame in his lap and stared into the darkness.
I have not seen my brothers for almost four years, Evayne. Am I to see them now as an enemy?
The air rippled with the dissonance of the chord that he struck. He was, to them, a traitor, but they were his family, his friends. Only for their sake, in the end, had the words of Evayne held sway. For i
n the end, even the brotherhood could not face a god.
It was a bitter fact: He would willingly have given his life to save the brotherhood—but giving up the brotherhood to save the brotherhood. . . . What was done, was done. But he could not say with certainty that, had he the choice again, he would choose as he had.
Silence surrounded him; the strings were absolutely still. His left hand held the harp, his right was curled into a fist so tight his nails cut the skin of his palm. I won’t do it. I can’t do it. I will not confront a brother. I—
Golden light flared in the darkness, half-blinding him. He recognized it as the flash of a diamond reflecting sunlight at an awkward angle.
Except there was no sunlight; not even the fires along the stage still burned. A mile down the boardwalk, near the docks proper, the lights were clearly haloed by the coming sea mist, but they hadn’t the power to wake the gem.
He stared at his right thumb in bitter silence.
Chapter Nine
“STEPHEN?” LADY ELSETH SMOOTHED out the wrinkles her hands had put in the folds of her gray skirts.
“I kneel first, and if Gilliam doesn’t remember, I knock his knees out from under him.” Stephen’s gaze was not upon Lady Elseth, but rather upon the head of the stairs.
“Yes, but do it surreptitiously.”
Her tone of voice caught him, and he gave up watching for Gilliam. Gilliam wasn’t late, after all. On this occasion it was Stephen who had finished packing and preparing early. He stepped over his single, modest trunk and made his way to Lady Elseth’s side.
“Do you think Gilliam will remember—”
“I packed it,” he said, placing an arm around her shoulders just as Norn would have done had he not been busy with Soredon. “With mine. If he forgets his trunk, we’ll still have our uniforms, don’t worry.” He smiled, but it was only half real, and it vanished as she met his eyes.
“You’ll know soon enough that I’ll never stop worrying. Not now. This is the first year you won’t be here when Soredon goes off to the Sacred Hunt. You’ll be with him.” Her hands had returned waywardly to the skirts, and were already kneading new creases into them before she caught herself.
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