by J. V. Jones
Emith’s words left a deep silence behind. Tessa didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to be the first to speak. The wheels of the cart creaked, the horses’ tack jangled, and the waxed leather of Ravis’ tunic made a soft, swishing sound as he walked. The day seemed suddenly very long—the longest Tessa had ever known.
Ravis spoke. “Emith, I’ve seen designs like ones Deveric painted only once before in my life. In a fortress I never want to revisit, commissioned by a man I wish I’d never met. At the time the man told me I wasn’t to worry any longer about something that had been troubling me for many months—he had a special way to make it right.” Ravis’ voice was beautiful to hear in the darkness: gentle on Emith, yet somehow hard on himself. “I hadn’t given the incident a second thought until last night when I opened the manuscript press and saw blood on a pattern barely dry.
“I have been to many places and seen many things, and have long forsaken the privilege of being anybody’s judge. If there were things your master was involved in that may be considered ungodly, I would never condemn him or vilify his name.”
In the moon-pale shadows of the road, Tessa could clearly see the line of Emith’s shoulders moving up and down. Glancing from him to Ravis, she was struck by a sense that all of them—Ravis, Emith, and herself—were caught up in something that was too large to see or understand. As she had earlier in Marcel’s cellar, Tessa felt that if she could just step back and view events from a distance, she would be able to trace a pattern from a seemingly random set of lines.
“Emith . . .” Tessa spoke into the darkness that lay between her and the scribe’s assistant. “Yesterday morning I was pulled here, to Bay’Zell. I was somewhere else—somewhere completely different—and now I feel as if I’ve been placed in the middle of something important, and I don’t understand what it is or why.”
Emith did not reply. Tessa heard him breathing.
“Show him the sketch, Tessa.” Ravis, so close now that Tessa could feel his breath on her cheek. They moved apart at exactly the same moment: he went to take something from his saddlebag, she went to take something from hers.
A dull, tapping noise sounded. Sparks flew, and then a golden flame lit up Ravis’ face. Tessa stopped in midstep just to look at him. The scar on his lip was like a seam of precious metal running through a layer of rock. Light from the flame gilded the jagged flesh, creating an exquisitely detailed feature from a flaw. Tessa wanted to touch it.
Dismissing the impulse as foolishness, she took the rolled scrap of cow’s hide in both hands and unraveled it toward the light.
Emith caught his breath.
Tessa, who hadn’t spared a glance for the sketch since she’d finished it last night, felt her face grow hot. The sketch was different from what she remembered: so much more detailed than anything she had ever drawn before. Curves spiraled into a labyrinth of shapes and forms, lines undulated in a dozen subtle ways while still managing to follow their path. Threads that first appeared to cross each other on closer inspection revealed themselves to be a series of intricately deceptive self-knots. Through it all, the ring was still identifiable as a ring, but it was so much more as well. It seemed to mean something.
Tessa shook her head, disbelieving. Had she really drawn this? She had been so tired last night, the light in Widow Furbish’s stock room was bad, the smoke from the tallow stung her eyes, and the stick of charcoal kept breaking in her hand.
But then . . .
Tessa’s hand trembled. The page shook. She remembered feeling free. Her tinnitus, which for so long had been a hand on her shoulder holding her back, had taken the night off. There was nothing to stop her from going too far. There was no such thing as too far. No point where she had to stop because the space between her eyebrows was starting to ache or the blood in her ears was beginning to beat a pulse. No pain. No noise. And, after the first hour or so of drawing, no fear that the tinnitus would start.
The cow’s hide was buttery yellow in the lamplight. The lines of the sketch were an eyelash short of black. Tessa studied the image of the ring as if looking at a stranger’s face. Was this what she was capable of when her tinnitus was taken away?
“You drew this, miss?” Emith asked, pulling up the blanket around her shoulders again. She must have let it slip.
“Yes. Last night.”
Emith made a curious sound in his throat. “I see. I see.”
Tessa looked up from the sketch to see Ravis looking at her. His dark eyes looked too knowing by far. “Emith,” he said, gaze still fixed firmly on Tessa, “tell us what you know about Deveric’s illuminations.”
He snapped out the light.
Emith spoke. “I was Deveric’s assistant. I scraped, then stretched the hides, mixed pigments and glazes. I bound brushes, ground eggshells, cut nibs, and boiled quills. Whatever my master asked of me, I did. My place was to help, only to help. I created nothing, said nothing, merely saved my master time. It wasn’t my place to ask questions. I was privileged to be where I was: with a great man, producing good work, getting paid to do what I loved.
“My master worked for the love of it, because he felt the shapes and forms in his heart and saw the inks and pigments in his dreams. He was a fine scribe, with a deep vision, and he would never do anything to hurt another living thing. He loved life and the one true God dearly.”
Emith’s voice conveyed pride and loyalty for Deveric, and although it was easy to see that he believed what he was saying, Tessa doubted it was the whole truth. The man wanted so badly to think the best of people.
“What did Deveric say about the one who would come after him?”
“Master said that his work was very hard, and it took a rare person to do it well. He learned the art of illumination from the monks on the Anointed Isle over half a century ago, and he hoped one day to pass along that knowledge to someone else.” Emith sighed and began to shake his head. “No one came along: neither Master Rance nor Master Boice had the feel for the old patterns. Boys who started as apprentices didn’t work out. In the end Deveric became resigned to the fact that he might never find the right person in his lifetime. Then one day he came to me—I remember it well, for it was the same day he finished the third pattern in his set—and said, ‘Emith, after I’m gone I want you to watch and wait for someone to come along who has a feel for patterns just like this, and when you find him I want you to teach him all you know.’ ”
Him? Tessa frowned. “And what if this person turns out to be a woman?” Ravis smiled as she spoke—Tessa couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but she could tell that he did. “Did your master leave any plans for that?”
“Why, no, miss. But I have seen work done by women scribes, beautiful work, light-handed work, and I’m sure my master meant no offense.”
Ravis laughed. A noise that sounded very much like him slapping Emith on the back accompanied the laughter. “Emith, you would have made a fine diplomat. I do believe that if the devil himself turned up on this road, you’d stand there and tell us he’s just a little misunderstood, that’s all.”
“But, sir—”
“Ravis. Call me Ravis. And my good, if rather indignant, lady friend here is Tessa.” From the sound of his voice, Ravis seemed to be enjoying himself. Tessa found herself smiling along despite everything—what he said about Emith was absolutely true. Besides, it had been a long, hard day for both of them, and she was too tired to get angry. It felt good to laugh.
Reaching the point in the road where they had to change their path and cut across plowed fields, Ravis handed the reins to Tessa while he and Emith saw to the cart. The moon was high but not bright. The way ahead was little more than a dark sheet, and although Tessa could smell the salty, dead-leaf odor of the river, she couldn’t spot any ripples or shimmers of light.
Once the cart was settled in the soft earth of the field, Ravis came back to walk beside Tessa. Emith stayed a few paces behind, keeping a hand on his cart.
“Why don’t you ride for a while?”
Ravis said. “I’ll lead your horse, make sure she steps lightly.”
Tessa shook her head. She was tired, but she preferred to walk in the dark. “How long before we get back to the city?”
Ravis shrugged. “An hour, perhaps longer.”
“You’re all welcome to come back to my mother’s house for some hot supper and arlo.” Emith sounded a little shy. “She makes the finest fish stew in all of Bay’Zell.”
Following that remark, Ravis, surprisingly, entered into a long conversation with Emith about the best fish for stewing and whether it was better to poach in broth or arlo. Emith chattered along happily, beginning most sentences with, “Well, Mother always says . . .”
Tessa was content to listen. As they followed the river’s course through dark, tree-striped ravines, night-fragrant fields, and steaming marshes that sucked at their feet as they stepped, the conversation shifted from local gossip, to rising prices, to tales of old princes and kings. No one mentioned Deveric and his illuminations again, but from time to time Tessa caught Ravis glancing over at her when he thought she wasn’t looking, and although he may have been talking to Emith about the best places to buy Istanian leather or the reasons why the Sire of Rhaize would never move against Drokho, she knew his thoughts followed the same path as hers.
Could she be the one who was supposed to continue Deveric’s work? And if she was, how did it tie in with everything else that had happened today?
E I G H T
T essa’s feet ached as she stepped onto the wooden camber of the bridge. She was so tired she couldn’t think. It took all her strength to put one foot in front of the other and stop her chin from falling on her chest. Operating purely on instinct now, she knew it was time to sleep.
She and Ravis had just come from stabling the horses. Before that they had seen Emith to his mother’s house—a small black-timbered building, filling a cleft between a bathhouse and a stable—and although Emith wanted them to stop, rest, and meet his mother, both Tessa and Ravis declined. All Tessa wanted to do was get back to Widow Furbish’s stock room, roll herself and all the accompanying bugs up in a blanket, and fall asleep. They hadn’t even stayed to meet Mother Emith, though Ravis was very careful and precise about passing along his respects. That sort of thing seemed to matter here, and Tessa found herself glad it did.
The clouds had long since kidnapped the moon, but the city created a smoky, mustard half-light of its own. The river stank. As Tessa walked across the bridge, she was aware of scratching, chittering, night-animal noises coming from the banks below.
Widow Furbish’s house was much the same as all the others on the bridge; it leaned forward toward the center of the walkway, as if the original builder had decided that if his creation ever were to fall down, he’d be damned if it landed in the water. With nostrils shrinking from the stench and ears buzzing with sloppy, slapping, water noises and high-pitched, tiny-toothed gnawing, Tessa was inclined to agree with him.
Pale slashes of light marked the run up to the Furbish door. Ravis checked his knife. Tessa put her foot on the first step, but Ravis blocked her with his arm. “I’ll go first,” he said.
Tessa was annoyed at Ravis’ theatrics. Why did he have to turn every arrival into an armed raid? Pushing back his arm, she said, “If there’s anyone on the other side, they can have me. I’m too tired to care.”
Ravis’ fingers stabbed at her arm. Tessa winced.
“You will stay where you are.” There was a cold, deadly authority in Ravis’ voice that Tessa had never heard before. Suddenly she was reminded of what Camron had said about him in Marcel’s cellar: Ravis was a mercenary, a man who trained others to kill. Kings paid for his services.
She stepped aside.
Ravis didn’t climb the three steps. He stayed on the pathway, leaning forward to knock on the door. There was no answer.
Ravis sucked in his bottom lip. Tessa noticed his jaw working and realized that inside his mouth he was chewing on his scar.
Seconds passed, then Ravis shouted, “Swigg! Open up. My arms are full and I can’t work the latch.”
Nothing.
Ravis and Tessa exchanged glances. The bridge, which only minutes earlier had been alive with noises, suddenly seemed as quiet as a tomb. There was no one about. All doors were closed. All shutters were barred. A wheelwright’s sign swayed in the wind, but if it creaked, the sound didn’t carry.
Tessa’s heartbeat quickened. The exhaustion she felt was slowly re-forming itself into something else. The aching muscles in her legs began to tingle.
On the first step now, Ravis lifted his free foot and sent it slamming into the door. The door swung open. Ravis drew his knife. As he called out Swigg’s name, Tessa got a whiff of the smell.
A musky, dog-blanket smell. An animal smell.
And then she saw the blood. Red blood, blue flesh, white bone.
Tessa gagged.
The lights went out.
Two dark figures appeared at opposite sides of the door. They lunged at Ravis, knife hands drawn back to their shoulders, blades poised to strike. Ravis’ left elbow shot up and outward as his right hand traced an X in the air with his knife. The blade wasn’t wielded to injure the attackers—there was too much distance between them for that—more as a warding device to give Ravis an instant to step back.
Tessa didn’t know if she was too tired or scared to scream. She breathed quickly, though, for the first time in her life unafraid of holding on to tension. No matter what she did now—scream, panic, run, or fight—she knew the tinnitus wouldn’t bother her. She was free to act as she pleased.
Ravis’ foot found the path. He had a second, perhaps less, to free himself from the confines of the doorway before the first of the two figures shot down the steps.
The rangy smell of animal musk got stronger. Tessa could barely see the two attackers—it was dark and they moved too fast. When the first one swung his knife at Ravis, she caught his profile. Only it couldn’t be his profile, because it didn’t quite look right. Something about the bridge of his nose: it was too flat.
Tessa shuddered. She must be mistaken.
The two attackers were out of the house now. Cloaks whipping around their bodies like shadows, they moved without making a noise. One was on the walkway to Ravis’ right, the other glided down the steps. Tessa could see him waiting for a chance to slip behind Ravis’ back. Ravis, aware that the two were working together to outflank him, had to keep feinting attacks to give himself chance to move wide. Both men held their long, thin-bladed knives high at their shoulders. Ravis kept his own knife close to his waist.
The first man grunted and took a swing at Ravis. Occupied with fending him off, Ravis didn’t notice the second man attack from behind.
“Ravis!” Tessa screamed.
Ravis swung round. He wasn’t quick enough. The second man’s knife glanced along his arm, slicing into the skin just below the shoulder. Even before Ravis could pull away, the first man was on him.
Tessa’s legs kicked into action. She found herself running toward the first man, fists out. A noise ripped through her eardrums: the sound of her own screams. The first attacker’s head whipped round. Hardly aware of what she was doing, Tessa punched him in the jaw. Even as the blow landed, she was conscious of the smell and the look of the man, and something deep within her warned her to get away.
Tessa fought the impulse, standing her ground, guarding her face with her fists, and screaming her throat raw. Blood barreled through her veins. Her lungs ran hot, sore, and ragged.
She felt completely terrified and exhilarated.
The blow barely made the man flinch. Turning away from Ravis, he hissed as he caught Tessa’s eye. His eyes had a golden cast and his lips were peeled back, revealing the pink knuckle of his gums. Suddenly he shot toward her, cloak lashing out behind him like a tail.
Tessa stepped back, stumbled.
Ravis seemed somehow attached to the second man. Chest pumping, he glanced over his shoulder at Tes
sa.
Her attacker circled. His knife was poised at his shoulder like the beak of a carrion-feeding bird. His breath smelled ripe and fatty. The contours of his face were streamlined, almost fluid. With a quick movement he stepped out of Tessa’s field of vision
Tessa tried to keep track of him. It was so dark.
Crack!
She heard her neck snap back as something smashed into her skull. She felt no pain, only a sick-spiraling blackness and a sense of outraged surprise: she hadn’t seen it coming! Tessa’s legs buckled under her, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, she could do to stop them. The world started rippling away, and the last thought she had before losing consciousness was that she’d been right about the tinnitus. It was never coming back.
It was a gift from this world to her.
Sucked back, Tessa opened her eyes. She had read enough stories to know that when heroines blacked out in perilous situations they were supposed to awaken many hours, often days later, in a large feather bed, safe and sound. Thin broth, a motherly looking matron, and a crackling wood fire were usually somewhere in the picture, too.
No such luck for her.
Tessa awoke to find herself looking at the exact same sky she’d passed out under. And judging from the ragged breaths and sounds of fighting coming from somewhere to the side of her, minutes had ticked by, not hours.
The wooden boards of the bridge rocked under her back, set vibrating by the footfalls and lunges of the two men to her left. Tilting her head a fraction to see what was going on, Tessa was hit by a tunneling wave of sickness. A blasting, scissoring pain in her head bored all the way down to her gut. Eyes watering, she vomited onto the deck.
