by Carol Berg
So he had not entirely dismissed his disturbance at my claim. “Yes, my eyes, nose, and ears are overwhelmed, but what I saw back there, the silver traces—”
“Thy task is not to think or speak,” he snapped. “I’ll give thee ample opportunity to question. ’Tis the deeps of the night here on Aesol Mount, the time when the world is quietest. Best for listening to voices that cannot be heard in the day. Best for learning control.”
I shut my mouth, suppressed my resentful urge to kick him, and bowed. I needed to learn.
As before, the politeness seemed to take him a bit off guard. “I should not have taken the time to shape a kiran for Picus’s plantings. Thou didst not linger within his walls as long as I thought a halfbreed might, thus my hurry opened the way for this misunderstanding. So, no matter.” He waved as if his willing could dismiss my beliefs. “A wanderkin’s task is learning of the world, thus the separation gards are the most sensitive and most subject to confusion. Thou must seek perfection in their use, as in all things. For now, I promised to teach thee closure and control. Sit before the rock”—he pointed to the featureless slab
—“and listen. Stone speaks softly but with utmost authority. Seek its voice. Listen for it alone, and it will root thee firmly. Once thou canst hear the speech of stones, thou shalt begin to understand closure.”
Were he anyone else, I might discount such instruction as lunacy. But the man who had made love to Picus’s garden, tending it, infusing it with life, must be granted trust despite our other disagreements. The effects of his work yet fired my blood. Feeling exceedingly awkward, I sat cross-legged on the damp ground facing the rock and reached out.
“Do not touch the rock!”
I snatched my hand away.
“Our purpose is to develop and exercise thy control of the gards. Human tricks have no place here.
Heed the stone. Work at it.”
Balls of Karus, the man is difficult! The task seemed impossible with him standing not two paces behind me, with the riot of smells, sounds, and tastes from my senses swelling my skull to bursting. The traveling had, at least, reduced the uncomfortable involvement of my privy parts, but had presented its own myriad questions. And somehow in this clean and pungent air, my charge to Saverian kept repeating itself in my mind…
I needed to understand Llio’s curse, which condemned halfbreeds to crippling. My sudden conviction that my own existence was intimately entwined with the fate of Navronne had surprised even myself. But surely my life had taken no random course—not from the day I was conceived, not from the day I happened upon the book of maps, not from the day three months past when I lay bleeding in a ditch, only to stagger, blind and ignorant, straight to my mother’s sianou, where a Karish abbot had built his lighthouse. Clyste, a dancer so powerful that the earth itself had chosen her for a guardian, had laid the preservation of the lighthouse…of Navronne…at her son’s feet. My feet. Of a sudden that seemed so obvious. And terrifying.
Listen for the stone. A hand clamped my bare shoulder as a dog’s jaws grip a bone, infusing my body with my vayar’s will. I had to learn before I could act. And so I shoved aside fear and looming destiny for the moment and set to work.
How would one recognize the voice of stone? First concentrate on hearing in preference to the other senses. Dismiss colors, images, tastes, and tactile sensations. Soft, Kol had described it, and so I dismissed the noisy, loud, and brightest sounds, the florid trumps and horns, the bawling of donkeys, the screams of prisoners, and cackles of madmen. With utmost authority, he’d said, and so I dismissed the quiet nattering of birds and insects, the trivial speech of gossips, and the soft mouthings of lovers, the pale colorings of everyday living. As if the entirety of my perceptions were bedcoverings, I peeled away layers, hunting a voice of solidity, of weight, of dense, slow changes…
Saints and angels, this is impossible! As if slogging through desert dunes hunting for one particular grain of sand, I would push one thought aside only to feel five thousand more cascade into its place. But in the end, when all else was stripped away, a soft word rumbled through my spirit like distant thunder, like the shudder of an avalanche halfway across the world. A burden settled on my shoulders…
ponderous…immense. Hold. And some interminable time later came another. Forever.
This was no dialect a mouth could imitate. Truly I heard no speech at all—no sentient mind produced such words. Rather I experienced an expression of unyielding heaviness and stalwart density, stiffening my back and chest, forcing thigh and shoulder taut. Unmoving. Unshakable. Just as I was about to release my concentration and declare victory, for of a certain no entity but a mountain itself could speak with such weight, another word boomed from a wholly different direction. Crush. I held breathless, as if the massive boulder and its fellows were grinding me to powder. Pound. Squeeze. This voice drummed cold and harsh. Then came another voice—smaller, lost. Deep. Tumbling. Diminished. Dizzy, I imagined smooth rounded stones washed endlessly in a mountain river, their substance ground inevitably away.
Fascinated, I sorted through the slow-moving litany, seeking the voice of the particular rock before me, for the words came one and then the other with great gaps in between. Was this a conversation? I decided not. A foolish notion, and yet what would I have said a few days previous to anyone who told me I would hear words in the voices of stone?
Shattered. Waves of blazing heat rolled over me, and more of wet and brittle cold, an uneasy pressure culminating in explosive power and breaking—this rock, whose fractured shoulder lay prostrate beside it, whose enduring memory spoke destruction and ending.
I’m sorry, I answered. Not that I believed the slab could think or understand, only that its overwhelming desolation required some response.
Satisfied and weary, I released the sensory textures of the world to intrude once again. How small and weak they seemed. Not trivial. Not unimportant. But eminently controllable. This must be what Kol wished me to understand. Closure.
Excited, I nudged and poked at the clutter, recalling the depths to which I’d gone to hear the stone.
The act cleared a small space where I could have a thought without intrusive clamor. Of course, my newfound order quickly collapsed into confusion again. This would take practice. I gave up and opened my eyes.
Mist had crept up the mountain and enfolded me, soft and damp. The bulging moon hung in the sky, thinly veiled like a pureblood bride. A rush of air overhead marked a hunting eagle’s quiet passage.
“This rock misliked its breaking, vayar,” I said, grinning as I straightened my back and twisted my neck, stretching out muscles too long still. Had someone told me I’d sat before the confounded rock three nights in tandem, I could have believed it. I needed a piss so badly, I felt like to burst.
No one answered. And I felt no presence behind me. I peered first over my shoulder and then around the rock.
Kol stood slightly higher on the slope, conversing with another male of his kind, this one shorter and wider in the shoulder, though yet lean and tautly muscled. The moonlight illumined moon-white hair, bound into a long tail tied every knuckle’s length with scarlet. The gard on his broad back—a twisted pine as you might see on a mountain crag—gleamed a sharp and vibrant cerulean. The two of them were arguing and did not glance my way.
I shifted my position slightly, so that I could observe the two less obviously. Clearing away the clutter inside my head, I picked out Kol’s voice.
“…told the tale of my kiran as if he had himself designed it. He touches the earth to know these things. He saw my changes, Stian. He claims to see the kiran patterns themselves.” Kol’s voice rang tight.
Anxious.
Stian…my Danae grandfather. The eldest of my family. Wonder held me speechless.
“And this is the same sorcerer who brought death to Aniiele’s meadow? Who violated Clyste’s sianou so that now thy sister, too, lies poisoned by the Scourge? How canst thou look upon a human without loathing? How can
st thou ask me to approve a halfbreed as my charge?” The elder crouched beside a cracked slab of rock and picked at a tangle of vegetation, tossing aside dead leaves and stems. “The Cartamandua…healthy for them both thou didst hide this history from me. Humans are a breed of vipers.”
I held my place behind the rock, excitement quenched. Fortunate that experience had given me no expectations of warm family welcomes.
Kol stood his ground above the older man. “Indeed, this Valen broached Clyste’s sianou, but only his companion sullied the water that day. And I’ve told thee repeatedly that he saved Aniiele, though I did not understand how so at the time. The hands of the Scourge had struck down the victim and left him to bleed.
But this sorcerer gave back the victim’s choice as to the manner of his passing, and so, at the last, the victim’s blood was freely given. Aniiele lives, Stian sagai, by virtue of this man’s deeds.”
Great Iero’s heart…Kol had watched me murder Boreas! That terrible night had etched a vivid horror on my soul: the black, blood-smeared lips of Sila Diaglou and her henchmen; my old friend captive of agony and despair; the sweet meadow that had felt as a part of heaven stained in so vile a fashion by his blood and torment. Blood freely given…Aniiele lives… Though naught could cleanse the blood from my hands, Kol’s words brought a measure of comfort I had never expected.
“I have tried to dismiss him,” said Kol. “But he sticks to me like thorn. I have named him as insolent as his sire, yet he sounds the streams of earth with reverence and respect, using skills unknown to our kind. He hungers for learning and does not hold back. He led me to the poisoned Well, and I danced beside it. Had my kiran not been flawed with anger and grieving, I might even have reclaimed the Well. And Clyste…Thy daughter was no birdwit child, Stian, tricked into mating with a pithless fool. The Well chose her as its guardian, and she chose the Cartamandua as her child’s sire. She never explained her choice even to me, but just this day I’ve wondered—Feel the waning season, sagai. The true lands are dying. Just this morning I’ve had to reclaim yon garden vale yet again. The Well and the Plain are lost, and my heart speaks what my mind cannot grasp—that the Canon is diminished by far more than we can remember. If this halfbreed’s claim is true, if he can see the patterns, might he be—?”
The elder burst to his feet and shook his finger at his son. “Thou art our answer, Kol, not a halfbreed Cartamandua. Each season brings thee closer to perfection. All recognize it. Thou shouldst dance the Center this season. But thy petulant exile sours the archon and the circles, and as a storm wind among roses hath thine errant rescue of the halfbreed pricked Tuari’s wrath. He would see thee bound and buried for the shame thou hast brought on our kind before Eodward’s son. Only thy irreplaceable ability keeps thee free.
Break the halfbreed. Give him over.”
“Have I shamed thee, Stian sagai?” Kol’s words cracked and snapped as does a frozen lake.
The white-haired Dané clasped his hands behind his neck and pressed his arms inward, as if to squeeze out the thoughts Kol had implanted in his head. Only after long silence did he release his grip.
Tenderly he drew his fingers along Kol’s hard cheek and tucked stray red curls behind the younger man’s ear. “Nay, jongai, never shame,” he said softly. “It is only…for good or ill, the archon’s word speaks our Law. My human son has met his mortal fate. My daughter ne’er will dance with me again. I would not lose thee, too.”
“Then do not allow Tuari’s blind hatred to speak for thee. This halfbreed is born of Clyste. Her choice.
Grant him the walking gard to keep him safe.”
Stian dropped his hand heavily, leaving three small flowers twined in Kol’s hair. “Bring him.”
The true lands are dying. So simple a phrase to leave my heart hollow. Did no one know the reasons? Were even the Danae, who could reshape the earth and command its creatures, confounded by it? What did that do to Osriel’s hope? Navronne’s hope?
Kol tramped and skidded down the slope toward me. Wary of this elder who spoke so casually of breaking halfbreeds, I chose not to let them know I’d overheard. I sprang to my feet and shouted louder than before, “I’ve heard the stones’ voices, vayar. This one is most unhappy.”
“Thou hast heard—” Kol stopped halfway down the slope and shook his head as if to clear it. “Come up, rejongai. We will talk of stones’ voices later. Stian summons thee.”
When I reached Kol’s side, and we climbed slowly toward the waiting elder Dané, he spoke softly.
“Thou hast shown reasonable manners thus far, Valen, and I would caution thee to continue. My sire hath only tonight learned of thy parentage…”
“…and he is no happier than I was.”
For the first time I glimpsed amusement twitch Kol’s fine mouth. “Thou hast no measure of his unhappiness, wanderkin. And Stian’s skills make my own appear but a nestling’s tricks.”
I doubted that, having heard how Stian spoke of his son’s talents, having witnessed those talents summon the earth itself to his service.
“And mention not thy female companion or the monk.”
No, Stian would likely have no kind feelings for Eodward’s tutor or a human stranger, however unlikely that Saverian and Kol would repeat my parents’ folly. Indeed, the consideration of a mating between Stian’s son and the physician conjured a delightful image—something like the conjoining of a swan and a woodpecker. A virginal woodpecker.
I smothered a grin. “Aye, relagai. No mention of distracting humans.”
The elder Dané awaited us where the rolling meadow formed a shallow bowl, choked with dead willows and matted vegetation. His fingers stroked the blades of brittle grass that had once stood as tall as my hip.
“Stian sagai”—Kol bowed gracefully before his father—“I present a wanderkin of our blood-clan. I have accepted the charge of his dam to stand as his vayar. He hath pledged himself to explore and learn, and I judge that his talents and experience have given him knowledge sufficient to accept his walking gard.
He answers to the name Valen.”
Stian rose. A snarling cat graced the brow and cheek of the broad-shouldered Dané, its long tail twined about his neck. The gards that marked his flat belly, broad chest, and muscled limbs spoke of jungles and hot, languid pools. Despite his white hair, he appeared no older than Prior Nemesio. A man in his prime, with spring-green eyes that scoured me.
“Scrawny. Thick-boned. Weak.” I might have been a cow. An ugly cow.
Kol answered coolly. “Valen followed me from the Sentinel Oak to Evaldamon without rest, sagai.
Even so, his strength or endurance is no matter. I seek thy consent only for the walking gard, that Clyste’s child may have skills to elude those who would break him…to our shame. His use of those skills shall be his own burden, not thine or mine. He is not to dance.”
Stian’s lean face resembled Kol’s. The father’s chin sat squarer. The son’s eyes sat deeper. Stian reminded me of the first stone whose voice I’d heard. Unyielding heaviness. Stalwart density.
The elder’s arched nose flared in contempt, and the creases about his eyes deepened. “The Cartamandua bragged that he sowed his seed across the lands and seasons and taunted his kin with his scattered offspring. That such a preening rooster laid hand to Clyste…that she chose prisoning to protect him…Pah!”
“When I was a boy, Janus named the Danae glorious, generous, and hospitable,” I snapped, anger banishing caution. “I refused to believe him, madman that he was, preferring the common wisdom that the long-lived are spiteful, petty, and cruel. A child’s insights can be astonishing, can they not? For even then, I did not know that a Dané had stolen Janus’s wits over a broken promise. Nor had I been ensnared by Danae trickery designed to murder other humans. Nor had I yet experienced the Danae welcome for their imperfect kinsmen. Is your hammer ready?”
“Rejongai!” Kol barked.
I pivoted to face my uncle squarely and bowed. “Teach me, if I hav
e erred, vayar. I assumed that frank speech must be expected between elders and wanderkins. Or perhaps it is believed that halfbreeds do not hear when their lacks and parentage are so unkindly discussed, which, of course, must make it proper to cripple such a flawed being.”
Stian’s complexion darkened. He stepped forward, his fingers splayed in some fashion that caused sweat to bead on my brow and back.
I did not retreat.
“Stian sagai!” Taut as a maid on her virgin night, Kol stepped between us. “I am his vayar. Thou canst not touch him without first touching me.”
“Give him passage, Kol,” said Stian, snarling and pointing to the fractured rock. “I consent. But do it here. Without sparing. Then keep him forever from my sight.”
Chapter 16
While Stian reclined on the fallen slab, glowering at us, Kol led me up the jagged southern face of the rock. Once we had left the ground behind, Kol’s muttering never ceased. “Thou hast the thoughtfulness of a badger, Valen. Did I not warn thee of his temper? Did I fail to mention that this is the same Stian who must be consulted as the archon prepares to break thy knees? For a passing satisfaction, thou hast forfeited every benefit of his tolerance.”
“What hope has any halfbreed of his tolerance?” I called up to my uncle, whose feet dislodged sharp slips of rock that peppered my face. My blood yet ran hot, as well, though it was cooling rapidly as the distance between my feet and the hard ground increased. Why did words bother me so?
The uneven steps, created by long-ago fracturing and smoothed by centuries of wind and rain, grew narrower and impossibly farther apart as we neared the top. I squeezed my fingers into a crevice, even as a fierce wind threatened to rip them out again. Praising Kemen Sky Lord for his moonlight, I gripped with toes curled as if they might hold me to the rock.
