He wanted to throw something across the room, but there was nothing within immediate reach. So he sat a bit longer, sighed a few times and then, finally, rose and padded in bare feet across to his wardrobe. He concluded it could only be sundown on Evenday. Otherwise, Bala would have come banging on his door to get him up for the dinner she’d planned. At least someone’s plans were likely to play out the way they’d pictured them.
He shook his head. He mustn’t think about any of that now. He must clothe his body and hide the dread and panic in his mind. He could do little save act like nothing more than a holder in residence in Avaret, behave as though nothing were amiss. Despite his anxiety at what horrors Lisen might be encountering in Thristas, despite his distrust of Rosarel, despite his grief at the loss of two people dearer to him than his own life, he would join the courageous Tuanes and celebrate Evennight. If they could do it—and he knew very well that they could—then, he could, too.
He chose a deep blue tunic with little gelisate flowers embroidered in gold thread upon it. Gelisate grew wild in the foothills at the eastern edge of Felane. In spring, one could look from miles away in Casille, Felane’s capital, and see the lower mountains glowing in the deep yellow of the ubiquitous bloom. It was often looked upon as the unofficial symbol for Felane. Official, unofficial, Nalin didn’t care; he’d grown up loving the delicate blossoms.
After pulling his tunic on, he fingered one of the embroidered replicas. It was a touch of home, and he smiled, remembering better times. Then he looked in the mirror on the door of his wardrobe and realized that he’d worn his hair in a tail down his back for nearly two weeks now and hadn’t washed it since before leaving Rossla. In fact, his entire body required soap and plenty of water.
If Benir were here, Nalin could have sent him downstairs to advise Elsba and Bala that his master would be delayed. Instead, Nalin compromised with a quick wipe of a bath with a washing cloth and a cursory rinse of his hair. No more than ten minutes after he’d filled a bowl with water from the small well down the hall, he was clean.
Well, not entirely, he realized as he slipped into his tunic for the second time. It was full-on dark now, and he’d lit one candle before he’d attempted to deal with his hair. It was still oily, so he pulled it back as tightly as he could and braided it down his back. Like Rosarel, he thought. His braid, however, barely reached past his shoulder blades, but it looked very native, very Thristan, a thought which made Nalin shiver. It was Evennight in Thristas, too. Did the people of the desert celebrate this yearly milestone as well? What was Lisen doing now?
He shook his head. No point in dwelling on that, he thought. He headed out, down the stairs and then to the south end of the first floor. He realized as he reached their door that he’d brought no gift, but he doubted either Elsba or Bala expected one, not given the fact he’d only just arrived from a long journey and had been invited at the last minute. He knocked lightly on their door, and it burst open, Bala on the other side.
“Nalin, good. You’re here,” she enthused. He could only squint against the bright light from the dozens of candles illuminating the room.
This is the Tuane way of dealing with grief, he thought. Bring on the light and force darkness out.
“Well, don’t stand there. Come in,” Bala urged. He nodded and reluctantly stepped inside, Bala closing the door behind him. “No sadness, Nalin. Not tonight.”
He knew well enough not to argue with a Tuane. He’d tried with Jozan under similar circumstances, when he’d felt gloomy and moody, and she’d always pointed out that he’d never find happy again if—
“You’ll never find happy again if you keep moping about,” Bala said, interrupting his thoughts.
“So your sister always told me.” He smiled at Bala.
Dinner consisted of the traditional vestiges of winter stores—cured meat, hard cheese, dried apples and late tangerines. As they finished up and sat back from the table Bala had set up in Elsba’s antechamber, the three of them all truly satisfied, Bala jumped up and headed into the bedchamber leaving Nalin and Elsba alone.
“What’s that about?” Nalin asked.
“I think she got the cook Ariel loaned us to bake a sweet cake of some kind,” Elsba replied. “She’s been working on this for a couple of days. It’s distracted her from all this mess. First time I’ve seen her smile in a month.”
“It’s good,” Nalin said. “The couple of days I had with….” He hesitated over what to call Lisen here in the formality that was Avaret. “The couple of days I had with the Heir in Rossla after the dispossession,” he began again after he’d decided, “were that kind of good. I was still concentrating on her welfare, but I was no longer concerned with her sanity.”
“How long do you expect them to stay in Thristas?” Elsba asked.
“The plan is for them to stay until they have to get back for Council.”
“Then another month or so.”
Nalin nodded, nothing left to say, but Bala’s return relieved him of further conversational responsibilities. She carried a small pan, and the smell that entered with her caused Nalin to rethink how full he was. Not quite full enough, he thought.
“It’s an apple spice cake,” Bala said triumphantly as she set the pan down on the table. She leaned over and kissed her father on the cheek. “I gave the cook our recipe, and she did what she could.” She turned to Nalin. “Our alleged Empir has not been forthcoming with supplies.”
“He thinks we should be at home,” Elsba added, “and not depleting his larder.”
“And yet Lorain is no burden whatsoever,” Nalin commented.
“Of course not,” Bala said. “Now, let’s cut this cake.”
It was one of the best cakes Nalin had ever tasted. Whichever one of his cooks Ariel had tossed to the Tuanes, she was very good. Just enough juicy chunks of apple, the perfect balance of spices, and still warm from the oven. It seemed they had all been struck speechless as they luxuriated in the wonder of the treat.
“You know,” Elsba remarked absently, “I can’t remember much about our Evenday celebrations, but I do remember one Greatdark. I believe you were about five.” He pointed at his daughter. “The first time you were old enough to call back the light. Jo was eight.”
Bala began to laugh. “I remember that. We both had our candles and had lit every torch in the house, Jo lighting most of them. I couldn’t keep up with her. But in her rush to get to the final torch outside in the yard before I could, she tripped and fell, setting the rushes on the floor in the entry on fire!”
They all laughed, and Nalin’s soul floated in the lightness of joy. He could count few moments like this in his lifetime, but the last one had been so long ago that he couldn’t even recall it. And then he realized that he’d never taken the time to celebrate Jozan’s life; here was his chance.
“That’s not how she told it,” he said. “She claimed it was your need to beat her at everything that brought her down, that you tripped her.”
“What?!” Bala exclaimed in mock insult. “I tripped her? Yes, I am the competitive one, now, aren’t I.”
“I’m only repeating what she told me.” Nalin smiled and shook his head. Creators, it felt good to sit with old friends and talk about something other than the potential for destruction should the all-sacred plan fail.
“Father?” Bala turned to Elsba with that look that insisted on a supporting remark.
“Leave me out of this, Bala,” Elsba said, laughing and holding up his gnarled hands to ward off his daughter’s pleas. “My memory of the event matches neither yours nor the memories this noble here alleges to have been your sister’s.”
“Another version?” Nalin said with a smile. “Do tell.”
“I’m an old man, Nalin. Perhaps my memory fails.”
“You are a disinterested party, Elsba. What really happened?”
Elsba rose slowly from the table and went to the couch which had been moved slightly to accommodate the table. He sat down, a goblet of w
ine in his hand, and began. “Well, it was like this. Their mother and I had instructed them to light only the torches on the ground floor and only inside. It was Jo, of course, who suggested turning it into a game of who could light the most. So their mother followed one and I followed the other, and we counted up the number of torches they lit. When we returned to the entry, the tally came out even. This aroused Jozan’s passion to win, and she announced that the torch outside, since it was technically on the ground floor—“
“Even though we’d been forbidden to go outside,” Bala interjected.
Elsba nodded and continued. “…since it was technically on the ground floor, was fair game, and she took off. Bala ran out right behind her, and somehow the two of them ended up in a tangle at the door with the rushes smoldering.”
They shared more laughter at the image this story evoked. It had undoubtedly caused Elsba and Firjo some concern at the time, Nalin figured, and extricating the two girls from the threat of the fire could not have left anyone smiling. But since all had turned out well, the story now glowed no matter which version you heard or believed.
“And with that,” Elsba declared, “I must ask to be excused. I’m in desperate need of some rest.” The older man rose from his chair, Nalin and Bala following. Elsba took Nalin’s hand. “Blessings on you, Nalin,” he said.
Nalin looked into the old man’s rheumy blue eyes and saw pride, strength, but most of all, an overwhelming weariness. Nalin wished there were something he could do to ease the holder’s burden, but he could barely carry his own. “And Evenday blessings to you,” Nalin replied.
“Father, I’d like to speak with Nalin a bit longer,” Bala said, then turned to Nalin. “In your quarters, perhaps?”
“Of course.” Nalin nodded to Elsba and waited as the old holder made his way into the bedchamber before he led Bala from the Tuane quarters and upstairs to his own.
“I’m worried about him, Nal,” Bala said as they stepped into his office. Nalin transferred the traveling gear he hadn’t yet put away from one of the chairs to the floor, motioned for Bala to sit and pulled a flask of wine and two pewter cups from his desk. He set the cups down there, poured wine into each one and offered one to Bala.
“He’s not well, is he,” Nalin commented as he settled into his chair and put his feet up on his desk. This resembled an accustomed moment, sitting here with a Tuane heir, sipping wine and talking late into the night. He could almost smell Jozan in the air, and yet, no, Bala sat in front of him, not his old friend now gone. Never again, he thought with a yearning he’d denied himself until this moment. A yearning that encompassed more than Jozan, more than Flandari, even. He yearned for life as it had once been, with someone else making the decisions, someone else responsible for Garla’s fate.
“Nalin?”
He sat up as though awakened from a deep sleep, his feet dropping from the desk to the floor. “Yes?” he replied as he realized he’d just indulged in exactly that which he’d avoided all this time—self-pity. “I’m sorry. Did you say something?”
“Are you all right?” Bala asked. “You drifted away. I watched your face go blank. I know you napped today, but maybe I should leave and let you get more sleep.”
“No, please. It has nothing to do with sleep.” He rubbed his forehead and forced a smile at her. “You said you needed to talk.”
“It can wait.”
“No. You’re worried about your father. Tell me.”
“Well, after you left Seffa, I didn’t know what I’d do. He planned Jo’s rites. He wouldn’t let me help. But his eyes—Nalin, his eyes were dead. For a long time after the funeral, he stayed in his room, day and night. I finally started taking his meals up to him myself and forcing him to eat. I could only get him to eat a little, but it was better than the nothing he’d been eating before that. And I hate to say it, but hearing about Aunt Eloise’s arrest was actually a good thing. He woke up, caught fire. I couldn’t stop him. He was coming to Avaret with or without me. I decided it would be better with me.”
“He looks very tired,” Nalin commented to fill the silence when she paused.
“He’s coughing. Have you heard him cough? And it keeps getting worse. He can’t be getting any sleep. I know I’m not.”
“His coughing wakes you up?”
Bala nodded. “It’s horrible.” The room went quiet again, too quiet for Nalin’s comfort. The silence of the nearly empty palace chilled him deep within. “How is she really, Nal?”
“Who?”
“The Heir,” Bala said as though it were obvious. Maybe it was. Nalin didn’t know.
“You mean Lisen?” He had no stomach for pretense with Bala, instead referring to the Heir by the name he’d finally adapted to using. “Possession is brutal. I learned more about it than anyone should have to know just on the long ride to Rossla. Hermit Teran, the necropath, wasn’t optimistic at all about her chances of surviving it. But she’s blessed with inner strength. And, thank the Creators, it wasn’t the necropath’s first dispossession. He pulled her through. Jozan pulled her through. She pulled herself through. After watching her become more and more dominated by the madness, her recovery was a miracle to behold.”
“Your eyes light up when you speak of her.”
He lifted his cup to his lips and tried to hide behind a gulp of wine. “I admire her is all,” he said finally. “And by now, she and Rosarel should be well into the desert and acclimating to life there. Hopefully she won’t grow too fond of it.”
“Of Thristas?” Bala asked. “I’ve heard it’s a very hard place.”
“She’s a hermit, Bala. She’s used to hard work and a simple life.”
“I suppose, but that also means she knows where her duty lies. She won’t turn into a Thristan on us.”
“Oh, of course not.”
But Nalin remembered the look on her face when Rosarel had burst into the infirmary which had become like a prison for her. She hadn’t seen him in weeks—not counting the days he was with them in the carriage to Rossla. In her eyes, Nalin had seen the recognition of the return of a long lost companion. He appreciated her trust in the man, even though he didn’t share it. She needed someone to trust.
And yet, Nalin couldn’t deny that it had pained him to see her gaze on the captain that way, and nearly two months alone together in the desert could only enhance whatever feelings already existed. And once more the thought shot through him. I should have gone with them.
CHAPTER TEN
GO THEN AND SEEK
The atmosphere alone could intoxicate the soul. The Tribe, from Elders down to infants, had partaken of the feast while the participants in the ritual sat motionless and silent at the high table. When the Tribe had finally satisfied their hunger, the humming had begun, a single note picked up one by one by one until everyone with a plate in front of them was vibrating.
During the meal, Lisen had fought the urge to scratch an itch on her nose; it felt unseemly to move even that little bit. She had been less successful at squelching all the questions irritating the inside of her head. How long was the meal? What happened then? How soon would they all be led to the crown of the mesa? Would anyone from the Tribe go up there with them? Would they be given any instructions at all? Or would they have to figure it all out on their own? What happened next?
What happens next?
Everybody here knew everybody else, but Lisen only knew Korin and his friend Ondra, who was clearly no friend of hers. These Thristans seemed a noble people, filled with pride and grace and a culture with traditions she as a Garlan found a little hard to understand. But as the humming grew, she felt herself drawn in, despite feeling totally abandoned, and the chatter in her mind slowed geometrically. Curiosity remained, now tamed and manageable.
The humming evolved into singing; the singing, into dancing, accompanied by drums and flute-like instruments. The People moved in freeform waves and bows, raising arms, caressing one another, their bright, multicolored robes whirling before Lise
n’s eyes. She found herself able to focus clearly one moment, and, in the next, clarity would startle her as she realized she’d lost herself again in the dizzying tapestry of their dance. Soon, she drifted into the pulsing rhythm of the drums, swaying in her seat, wishing she could get up and join them. Beside her, Korin also moved, his single eye closed, and she sensed his desire to be one with them as well.
Then, as she dreamed her soul rising from her body, the music stopped abruptly, and she opened eyes she couldn’t remember having closed. One of the Elders stepped up to them from the front of the enthralled, panting-but-hushed crowd and spoke in Thristan.
Lisen heard Korin take a deep breath, and then he leaned over to whisper to her, “It is time.”
She nodded. She would do whatever he did, follow him wherever he went. She wanted to fulfill the Tribe’s trust in her.
The sixteen participants rose and turned towards the Elder who’d spoken. He nodded once, as though in respect, said something to which all save Lisen responded, took a torch from the wall and then stepped through a very small passageway right behind him. Lisen had previously dismissed this space in the wall as merely an indentation in the rock, but she’d been wrong.
They followed the Elder through this passageway for quite a distance, at points negotiating steep inclines and tight turns. Korin hiked behind her, every once in a while touching her shoulder with a reassuring hand. She was hungry and tired, but her early years at Solsta had taught her that such a state prepared one for the spiritual. His touch, however, was a comfort.
Situated midway in the group, she could see only the two people right in front of her, the five or six beyond them and the Elder leading them all indistinguishable in the distant flicker of the torchlight. Her inability to see where they were going heightened her excitement. Unlike her, these others probably knew this passage to the top of the mesa well, but, like herself, they knew little else. The mystic mystery of the ritual remained hidden, its revelation only a few moments away. Dad would love this, Lisen thought. She could never know the depths of Thristan culture—their brief stay would allow her no time for that—but this Farii had offered her a taste, however tiny, of the essence of the People of the desert.
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