by J. V. Jones
Catching Ravis’ hand in hers, she dashed across the road toward the house. Ignoring the front door, she opened the side gate and let herself into the courtyard at the back. Everything was the same as normal: the hides soaking in lye, the kegs of arlo in the corner, the pile of pots and pans near the drain. Even the ash fire was burning. All the little details left Tessa feeling relieved. Nothing had changed.
Ignoring Ravis’ plea for caution, she rapped firmly on the door. “Emith. It’s me,” she called. “Tessa. I’m back.”
There was no reply at first. Ravis’ hand crept to the hilt of his blade as they waited. Just as Tessa was about to knock a second time, the door swung open. Emith stood in the threshold, looking as neat and well groomed as ever.
His eyes were dead.
Tessa’s heart stopped. All the heat left her face. “Emith.” She meant to say more, but her voice failed her.
Emith smiled. “Yes, miss. It’s good to have you back.” He sounded like a dead thing. There was no inflection in his voice. Standing back from the doorway, he said, “Come in. I’ve just put a pot of tea on the hearth.”
Ravis put a hand on Tessa’s arm. She shook it off and followed Emith into the house. Every hair on her body prickled like a cold spike. Her stomach contracted in sharp, jabbing punches. As her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light of the kitchen, she had to bite the inside of her mouth to stop herself from retching.
The kitchen was just as she remembered. The hearth burned brightly and was loaded with pots, the kitchen table was scattered with cooking utensils and spices, and Mother Emith’s stool was laid with her usual things: paring knife, silver scissors, embroidery bag, and spice boxes. There was even a plate of apples waiting to be peeled.
Mother Emith’s chair was facing the outside wall, as it normally did in early afternoon, and when Tessa failed to see the back of the old lady’s head peeking up from it, she shot a quick glance at Emith. He was looking down. Throat aching with dryness, Tessa took the few steps needed to bring her in front of Mother Emith’s chair.
It was empty. She had known it from the moment she had entered the kitchen, the instant Emith had opened the door. His eyes had told her everything. She just hadn’t wanted to believe them. Mother Emith was gone.
Turning back to face Emith, Tessa waited for him to look up. But he didn’t. To look up meant seeing everything for what it was, and judging from the carefully tended appearance of the kitchen, he had spent several days avoiding just that. Everything was laid out as if his mother were still here.
Finally, slowly, the force of Tessa’s stare drew his gaze. Looking up, he revealed eyes blank with pain. A muscle in his throat quivered. After a moment he began to shake his head. “She’s gone, miss. I went to fetch lobster, and when I came back, she was gone.” He made a small, helpless gesture with his hand. “They hurt her. Scared her.”
Tessa felt herself swaying. “Who hurt her, Emith?”
“I don’t know. They left a smell—like wounded animals.”
Ravis hissed. Tessa grabbed the back of Mother Emith’s chair for support. Izgard’s harras. They had come looking for her.
Tessa closed her eyes. When she opened them a moment later she found herself staring straight into Emith’s face. Some deep, deep part of him had gone. He looked lost. The world, which to him had always been filled with people who were either wholly good or just a bit misunderstood, was suddenly a place he no longer knew.
Tessa went to him. Knowing he was too timid for hugs, she slipped her arm through his and led him toward the hearth. There was an awkward moment at first when he shied away from her, but Tessa wouldn’t let him go. She couldn’t bear to think of what had happened, couldn’t trust herself to speak, but at least she could hold him. And be held herself.
Camron stood high on the battlements of Castle Bess and waited. He was exhausted, but the idea of sleep seemed ludicrous to him. It was a luxury he didn’t deserve.
As he looked out toward the west and the city of Bay’Zell, the sun dipped toward the horizon, creating layers of orange and purple light. Shadows lengthened, a breeze picked up, and the first of the night’s stars twinkled to life. Camron took one deep breath and then another. He knew he should go downstairs to the great hall, see his men, issue orders, arrange defenses, listen to the latest intelligence on Izgard’s position. But he couldn’t bring himself to do any of it. Not yet.
It was the fault of Castle Bess.
He had thought he could just return and defend it. He hadn’t counted on its memories: on the bloodstain on the stair, or the arrow nicks in the study door, or the sheer emptiness of its corridors. The place was darker than he remembered. And so quiet he could hear the past.
He couldn’t bear to be in it. His father was everywhere, nowhere. Time stretched so that it took an eternity to pass through the guardroom, where a dozen men had died, then shrank to a pinhead whenever he stopped to think. Losing himself on a ghost of a memory, he would look up to see a nearby candle had burned down a full mark while he blinked.
They had arrived late the night before, so late it was daylight before the fires and ovens were lit. Water had been drawn from the well, supplies had been sent for, and all the horses had been brushed out and boxed. Most of the twenty men who had ridden with him from Hook River had slept throughout the day and were only now awakening. Camron didn’t begrudge them rest. The past week had been hard on everyone.
Merin, Shale, and a score of other towns, villages, and hamlets along Izgard’s path had been cleared. It was thankless work. There were no good sides to it, only bad. Loath to leave their homes, livestock, and fields, people were hostile to Camron’s troop, somehow managing to blame them for Izgard’s approach. The worst thing to Camron was that his men accepted the blame. They felt guilty about surviving a battle where so many of their comrades had died. Camron hadn’t known how to deal with this, so he let his men be.
Truth was he didn’t know how to deal with anything. Ever since the night his father died and Izgard of Garizon had crowned himself king, his beliefs had caved in one by one. He was sure of nothing anymore.
Turning about to face the darker sky of the east and then the southeast, Camron tugged a hand through his hair. His lips formed a grim smile. He remembered the day when he’d first met Ravis of Burano in Marcel of Vailing’s wine cellar. Everything had been black and white then: his father was dead and someone had to pay, and Garizon was an enemy that needed to be crushed. Nothing was as simple as that anymore. His father had spent twenty-one years dreaming of the day his son would take the Garizon throne. Which meant that Garizon troops were no longer his enemies, they were his countrymen. Camron shook his head. He didn’t know if he wanted any of it.
The only thing he did know was that another massacre like the ones at Mount Creed and Hook River had to be prevented at all costs. Both he and his father agreed on that. Finally.
Finding some unexpected comfort in that thought, Camron pushed himself off from the battlements and headed toward the iron gate that led to the interior of the fortress. He had things to do, defenses to prepare, and as he descended the granite steps of Castle Bess he prayed the ghosts would leave him alone long enough to get started.
Emith checked one last time that the back door was locked and then followed Tessa to the front of the house. It was dark now, and Tessa could barely see the cobbles beneath her feet. A quarter moon hung low in the sky, giving off a thin blade of yellow light. Even though it was not cold, every shutter on Emith’s street was shut and bolted.
Ravis waited in the road with a filly and two ponies. He had slipped out an hour earlier, returning with horses, supplies, and various items Emith had requested for scribing. Catching sight of Emith and Tessa, he came forward and took the heavy bags from their hands. Within minutes everything was packed, strapped, and ready. They were on their way to Castle Bess.
It had been hard to talk in the house, so Tessa had said very little to Emith about her trip to the Anointed Isle. She had tol
d him she needed his help to paint a pattern and that he should gather together all the parchment, pigments, and brushes he could find and prepare himself for a short journey. Emith seemed glad of something to do. It wasn’t his way to ask questions, and he set about his tasks with quiet efficiency, pausing every now and then to run through lists in his head or recite the names of pigments he especially didn’t want to forget.
When it came to choosing parchment, Tessa had asked that he bring only uterine vellum. She could not imagine Ilfaylen painting the pattern that bound the Barbed Coil on anything else. Emith had a dozen sheets of calfskin left over from his time with Deveric—they were a little stiff, but handling would soften them—and he placed these in a press to keep them flat during the ride out of Bay’Zell.
The city was quiet as they rode through it. Occasionally dark figures flitted in and out of the shadows, but no one besides their small party walked openly in the road.
“Militia’s closed the gates,” Ravis said, guiding his horse away from a thick patch of shadow. Although he looked as calm as could be, Tessa could tell he was wary. His right hand rested on the hilt of his knife. “It won’t do them any good, though. This city was never built to be defended at close range. Its walls are old and tumbled down. They have so many gaps and weaknesses that even a determined band of wandering minstrels could break their way through.
“The Sire should have got here a week earlier, manned all the old fortresses around the city, and forced Izgard to engage there, not in Bay’Zell itself. As it is now, the first thing Izgard will do when he gets here is move to take over the fortresses. There’s a couple being defended by the militia, but Izgard will have them ousted in no time; most of them are Garizon built anyway, so his engineers will know them through and through.” Ravis made a hard sound in his throat. “Bay’Zell is a sitting target.”
Tessa glanced over at Emith, concerned about how Ravis’ words would affect him. She was accustomed to Ravis and his cool military-type assessments of situations, but the place he had just dismissed as undefendable was Emith’s home. Emith met Tessa’s eyes and smiled weakly. After a moment he looked down.
Hearing Ravis gathering breath for another pronouncement, Tessa spoke to head him off. She didn’t want Emith any more upset than he already was. “Castle Bess is the strongest fortress for miles, though, isn’t it? Hierac built it to be his command post in Bay’Zell.”
Ravis turned his head and looked at Tessa a moment. Nodding softly to her before he spoke, he said, “Yes. It’s the finest fortress in the city. We’ll be safe once we’re there.” Tessa knew he didn’t believe what he said, but he sounded as if he did, and she was grateful for that.
“What do you know about transcribing manuscripts, Emith?” she said, changing the subject before Ravis had chance to broach another of his own. “Did the old scribes ever use any other methods besides pricking holes in the parchment to make copies?”
Emith moved alongside Tessa. Surprisingly, he rode well, and his pony seemed eager to his bidding. “Let me see, miss. . . . There’s measuring and ruling, of course, and taking notes and rough sketches, but those two methods take more time and effort than simply pricking the underlying parchment and then using the pinpricks as a guide.”
Tessa nodded. According to Avaccus, Ilfaylen had been searched every night for parchment and written notes—he hadn’t even been allowed to take quill and ink to his chamber—so anything involving writing notes or sketching was out of the question. Briefly Tessa thought back to the woman on The Mull, recalling the way her face powder had caught in the elaborate embroidery of her veil. “What about pounce, Emith?” she asked. “Can it be used to transfer patterns?”
Emith made an interested noise and then thought for a minute. “Well, miss, I think perhaps a long time ago it was. I read about it once. In ancient times, well before the abbey on the Anointed Isle was built, even before the art of scribing was brought to the west by eastern mystics, scribes used to grind obsidian so finely that it could settle in the shallowest ridges left by the finest sablehair brushes.”
Excited, Tessa nodded. “And they spread this onto the finished pattern?”
“Yes.” Emith gave Tessa a curious look. “Once the pattern is covered with powder, the entire thing is shaken lightly to give the powder chance to settle into the depressions created by the paint. When that’s done, a second sheet of parchment is prepared with casein, so the powder will adhere to it. This new parchment is laid over the original, pressed against it firmly for some minutes, and then removed. If done correctly, the original pattern is re-created in its entirety on the second sheet of parchment.”
“Like Widow Furbish’s embroidery pounces,” Tessa said under her breath. Seeing Emith’s puzzled look, she said, “It’s how her embroidery patterns were copied. I upset a whole tray of them once and got covered in dark powder. I thought it was dust at the time.” She shook her head. “The powder creates a negative impression on whatever is laid across it.”
“Dust? Powder? What are you saying?” It was Ravis. Although he was now a good few paces ahead of her, his voice carried well, and Tessa realized he had been listening to everything she and Emith had said.
Tessa took a quick breath, then steadied herself in the saddle. “I think Ilfaylen did make a copy of his pattern, and I think he used pounce to do it with.”
Ravis made an noncommittal noise in his throat. He pulled on his reins, slowing his horse as they entered a dark courtyard closed in by high buildings. Taking his lead from Ravis’ mare, Tessa’s pony slowed without prompting.
“Remember the woman aboard The Mull?” Tessa said. “The one with the embroidered veil?”
Ravis turned and threw Tessa a smile. “No.”
Tessa felt her cheeks heating up. She couldn’t help but return his smile. “Well, there was a woman with a veil aboard The Mull, and she had face powder on her cheeks, and when she spoke it rubbed off on her veil. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but later it got me thinking. It reminded me of that morning I met you on Parso Bridge when I was covered in powder. Widow Furbish used it to make copies of her embroidery patterns—there’s no ink, measuring, writing, note taking or pinpricking involved. You just need powder and something to transfer the image on to.”
“But didn’t Avaccus say that Ilfaylen was searched every night? Surely Hierac’s guards would have found any sheet of parchment he tried to conceal?”
Tessa glanced at Emith. He was looking puzzled, not really understanding what they were talking about, yet too polite to ask any questions. She would tell him everything about Avaccus and Ilfaylen later. To tell the full story now would only hurt him more: another person he had known and loved was dead. Wanting to touch him, yet knowing he would only shy away from her, Tessa patted his pony instead.
To Ravis she said, “What if Ilfaylen hadn’t used parchment to make the copy? What if he had used something else? Something that even the guards wouldn’t have given a passing glance to?”
“Such as?”
“Remember what Moldercay said about Ilfaylen? He said that the day the pattern was complete, Ilfaylen fell sick and asked for a shawl. What if he had used that shawl instead of parchment, transferring the powder image onto the fabric? It would work, wouldn’t it, Emith?”
“Yes, miss,” Emith said, a trace of eagerness creeping into his voice, “providing the shawl had been prepared with casein first and was rolled and handled carefully afterward. A little of the detail might be lost, but the greater part of the pattern would surely be identifiable.”
Tessa had to resist the urge to lean over and kiss him. “Yes, that’s what I thought. Perhaps Ilfaylen asked for the shawl, wore it all day long, used it to take a copy of the pattern the moment the paint was dry, and then simply carried it out of the scriptorium when he was finished, claiming he was suddenly hot?”
“What about the pounce?” Ravis said, unconvinced. “How would he smuggle that in?”
Tessa was ready for this one. “
It wouldn’t have to be smuggled. It’s fine black powder . . . Ilfaylen could have passed it off as pigment. All he needed was five minutes alone with the pattern to apply and shake down the powder, then take the copy. Even Avaccus said Ilfaylen was allowed a certain amount of privacy while he was scribing.”
As she spoke, Tessa guided her pony up a series of low steps that led toward the city wall. Despite the cutting remarks Ravis had made about it earlier, Bay’Zell’s outer wall looked tall and imposing enough to her. She didn’t waste a minute worrying about how they were going to get through it, though. Ravis would either know the gatekeeper, be owed a debt by his son, or have some other acquaintance waiting to lead them to a secret gate. A smile began at the corner of her mouth. Ravis’ way of handling things suddenly seemed very endearing to her.
“How can you be sure of any of this?” Ravis’ voice got lower the nearer they drew to the wall. “Who’s to say Ilfaylen’s shawl wasn’t just that—something to warm his bony old shoulders?”
Tessa made an impatient gesture with her hands. Details itched against her skin like ground glass. “Moldercay said something that started me thinking. At first I thought it was a mistake and just excused it, but it stayed in my mind. And the other night after you and I”—Tessa stopped herself, glanced at Emith—“finished talking on The Mull, it niggled away at me. I even dreamt about it. Moldercay said the vellum was bleached, scrubbed, painted, glazed, then pounced.”
Emith looked up, understanding instantly what she said. “Pouncing is always done first to the vellum, miss, to prepare it to take the ink. If it was done after the pattern was painted and glazed, it would scrub the paint clean off.”
“Yes,” said Tessa. “That’s it. I think Ilfaylen purposely dictated the list of vellum treatments to his scribe, making sure that pounce was itemized last. To anyone looking at the manuscript later, it would appear to be nothing more than a simple clerical error. Yet to those looking for a clue about the pattern itself, it would be a signpost in the dark. Ilfaylen even made sure that his assistant didn’t have to lie about what was done. The scribe’s account states nothing but the truth: the pattern was pounced last. It was dusted with fine powder”—Tessa sent a gentle smile Emith’s way—“and, Emith, you were the one who told me that any finely ground powder is called a pounce.”
