by John March
“Yes,” Ebryn said, remembering the trikawi snapping at his fingers on his first day in Vergence.
“The fourth reason. As you may have guessed, affinities are neither drawn from, nor limited to, bonding with beings of that taxa. The talent for forming such bonds arises from something deeper, something in common with casting. It draws on correspondences between the creatures and the nature of the skeins, the finest threads of being from which all things which exist are woven. Your affinity rests in the nature of the skeins themselves, and just as everything woven from your affinity, skeins will feel a kinship with you. I think you will find the same skeins will easily bend to your craft.
“I think the greater price we paid with the disbandment of the Exemetuer order is the loss of insight this branch of our craft brings to everything else we do.”
Ben-gan leafed through the book in front of him, handling each page carefully, almost reverentially. He smoothed a page flat, and slid the book towards Ebryn. “Look here. Do you recognise the creature in this illustration?”
“Yes,” Ebryn said. “It's like one kind we saw in Alobria.”
The illustration titled “Churlwood elementine” showed a creature like an immense ball of roots seemingly dragging itself free of the ground.
“Before Elimora's work, we called them root trolls, and made little effort to distinguish the different kinds. Yet you can see he distinguishes five differing kinds common to this type of border realm, and perhaps a dozen related beings elsewhere.
“A large part of what we do is built on correspondence — a similarity. A being such as this is too complex to understand in its entirety, half a lifetime's work to untangle all the folded skeins of its nature. Yet I think, having met one, you will instinctively grasp elements of its nature.”
Ebryn nodded uncertainly. “Yes, I guess so.”
Ben-gan ran his hand over his beard. “Let's see if I can explain. Do you think you could move one of these shelves, with all the books on them?”
“By hand, no,” Ebryn said.
“Do you think this churlwood could?”
“Easily,” Ebryn said, remembering the ease with which they'd shoved aside the huge rocks covering their lairs.
“Just so,” Ben-gan said. “Do you know the Emesues Order teaches such a thing — the craft to lift and move great weights? This is teaching by rote — simple, yet inflexible. I think you could learn the necessary casting easily, yet without it you are forced to rely on the strength of your own shoulders.
“Now consider the nature of the churlwood. Strength, skin like iron, rootedness. You need to experience these qualities as an emotion, an instinct. The casting will follow. I liken it to speaking. Do you think about how your mouth will say each word, or place words together? No. You have a thought, a feeling you wish to make known. In its pure form casting is the same. Draw on the nature of the ephemeral, and shape them to your needs in the moment.
“Take these books and study them. Learn as much as your head will hold. When I was your age, I summoned many beings like these. Not to use, but to study, to improve my craft. Practise what you learn — find something heavy and move it.”
“I think I'll take these back to my room, so I can study without any disturbance,” Ebryn said.
“That is good, I think. Oh, and one more thing before you go. Before I forget, I have something for you,” Ben-gan said, rummaging through the small bag he sometimes carried with him, and eventually holding out a folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax, and a fine chain with a small disk attached.
“What is it?” Ebryn asked.
“One of the few remaining privileges of my position, which I can yet exercise freely, is the right to promote students. This document recognises you as an adept of the orders. You are not obliged to accept, although I think you will find it of benefit. If you wish it allows you to leave your order and pursue your own business without penalty, and with the notional support of the city. Whatever you decide, I recommend remaining with your order for the moment, and using your time to study as much as you can.”
“Thanks,” Ebryn said as he accepted the disk, and parchment. Such an inadequate response, he realised, for such a gift, but the enormity of the surprise seemed to have robbed him of words.
He turned Ben-gan's gifts over in his hands for a few moments before looking up. “Thank you. Yes, I accept.”
Scora Tyle watched Palona through half-lidded eyes the colour of green ice. Her flabby face framed with curly pale hair, and her overfull lip shaping naturally into a permanent sneer.
An uglier woman Palona had yet to meet, or one more mired in scandal, yet Scora seemed to revel in every degrading story, perhaps even going as far as inventing a few of her own.
They'd happened upon each other at the residence of Hylee, a mutual friend. Hylee was young and pretty, but extremely dull. Palona had secretly hoped to find Scora here, yet made a great show of surprise at seeing her.
They'd spent the later part of the morning nibbling on dainties, sipping fine chiara wine, and exchanging subtle jabs hidden inside bland social pleasantries. Hylee sat with her hands folded over a swollen belly, smiling sweetly, blissfully unaware of the venomous barbs being exchanged around her.
The third daughter of a nobleman, Hylee had been married off to a wealthy merchant, a large, overbearing, gruff man with coarse black hair everywhere, even on the back of his hands. Palona's skin crawled when she imagined what it must be like to be touched by him, and Hyley already had two boys by the man. Fat round things with scrubby dark hair, and purple squalling puke-covered faces. Disgusting.
The conversation finally came round to the festival of stilts, the real reason Palona had lingered so long.
“Before I forget,” Palona said to Hylee. “The reason I'm visiting is to invite you to my festival party … oh, and you must come too Scora.”
Scora smirked. “I'd be delighted, what about you, Hylee? We can both go together.”
From the corner of her eye she could see Jaquit raise an eyebrow. Palona opened her mouth, then shut it again, staring at Scora.
For as long as she'd hosted parties, Scora had competed with her, each trying to outdo the other for prize guests and spectacle. “Aren't you having a party of your own for the festival, Scora?”
Scora chuckled. “Yes, mine will be a few days after yours. That way all of our friends can come to both.”
“What?” Jaquit signed. She was sitting where she could only lip-read Palona's side of the exchange, but she'd noticed the dismay flicker on Palona's face.
“She's holding her party on a different day this year. Worse, she's coming to mine too,” Palona signed back.
Scora watched the exchange, a faint smile playing about her lips. Palona carefully controlled her expression, smiling sweetly at Hylee, but inside she seethed. Scora had outflanked her, and they both knew it.
She made up an excuse as soon as she could, and left.
Outside, in the courtyard, the palanquin bearers grunted as Palona threw herself down onto the cushioned interior, almost tipping the whole thing onto its side.
Jaquit gripped the side to stop herself sliding out, signing crossly with the other hand. “What?”
“She's ruined everything.”
Jaquit shrugged, and pulled a face.
“It will be a disaster … aren't you going to say anything? Don't you care?” Palona signed.
“Why should I care? I don't like dances.”
Palona felt heat rushing to her face. “You're so selfish. Can't you see how important it to me, for me to represent my uncle well?”
Jaquit made a rude noise, and rolled her eyes.
Palona completed the rest of the short journey in silence, staring through the veil at the grey streets. Jaquit sat opposite, pouting and looking resolutely in the other direction. Sometimes she really hated Jaquit.
She felt unfairly wronged by Scora, and Jaquit wasn't helping. The thought of her festival ball sat like vinegar in Palona's mo
uth now. It was the first real opportunity after the Tranquillity to make your mark, and it set the tone in society for the next six seasons.
Social propriety had kept most of the important guests at her previous two parties. Now they would attend both, and hers would be treated as a mere appetizer for the main course. Worse, she would have to attend Scora's party herself. She could see no acceptable way of refusing the invitation, and the humiliation would be unbearable. She was so upset she didn't even try to hurry the bearers.
Palona dismounted quickly in the courtyard outside the residence, ignoring the 'tch' sound Jaquit made behind her, and hurried into the house. Servants catching sight of her face as she approached quickly disappeared, ducking into rooms, and side passages.
Doctor Elali intercepted her at the entrance to her summer room, a warning hand raised as if to stop her.
“Lady Palona, your uncle has instructed he not be disturbed.”
“Oh, don't be silly, Elali,” Palona said, pushing past, “he didn't mean me.”
“Lady Palona—”
Palona ignored him and walked swiftly across the room, taking deep breaths to calm herself. If she wanted to compete with Scora the dance needed to be somewhere larger, with more spectacular musicians, and displays. First to find out her uncle's mood.
She followed the sound of conversation towards the back room, brushing down her dress and pinching her cheeks for colour. Her uncle was easy with his generosity, but there were limits. She intuitively sensed he had already given as much as he felt reasonable for the ball. She just needed to impress on him the importance of not being shown up by someone as uncouth as Scora.
Too late she recognised the second voice, freezing part way through the door, as if doused in chilled water. At the far end of the long table in the back room sat Murzel, leaning forward with his hands flat on the table surface, talking to her uncle in a low voice. His pale bald head nodded slowly in time with his voice.
Her uncle held up a hand, just as Doctor Elali had, when he tried to stop her. “Palona, my dear, unless you have something urgent to tell me, would you mind waiting until we have concluded our meeting?”
“I am sorry uncle … your eminence,” Palona said as she bowed her head, performing the sign of the three-faced god, and backing out of the room.
“She's a good girl, a real blessing.”
“Very reliable — I'm sure,” Murzel said, watching her like a man deciding if he should step on an insect.
Carefully averting her eyes, Palona stepped out of sight, taking refuge in her favourite seat, suppressing a shiver. She could still feel Murzel's eyes on her, as if watching through the wall.
“I am sorry eminence, you were saying?” her uncle asked.
“Yes … I was saying I had a private audience with the Triumvirate, relaying your concerns to them about the reliability of our allies. They instructed me thus: nothing must be allowed to take precedence over the plan. We must not be distracted by the concerns of the lords and merchants of this city.
“Do not be fooled by outward devices. There may be some who ape our religion, observe our precepts, visit our temples, but we know they are Volanian in their hearts. Do not be drawn into their plans, let them fight amongst themselves — it will distract them, but move quickly against any who would expose us, without hesitation or mercy.”
“And what of the boy, eminence, the one called Ebryn Alire?”
“Our friend tells me he lacks the power to block our purpose.”
“I am concerned this boy has arrived here at this time,” her uncle said.
“Do our precepts not say bait the trap to catch the thief? The Triumvirate told me the boy is set as bait. Would you expose such a talent so widely if you were preparing to use it?” Murzel asked.
“By who, eminence? Vittore?”
“It may be. Yet consider — the boy is like a knife. Whose heart is he aimed at? Whose purpose does he serve?”
“Tenlier, perhaps?”
“Or he is placed to goad members of the academy into rash actions, a pretext by one such as Vittore to further reduce them, perhaps eliminate the Aremetuet. Yet whatever the goal, for the moment he serves our purpose, drawing eyes away from our plan.”
“Is it the wish of the Triumvirate that we protect him?”
“No. His fate will be what it is. Our god will decide that. You must not draw attention to us through him.”
“Yes, eminence.”
“It is time to start preparing the first location. The negotiations are complete?” Murzel asked.
Palona's uncle cleared his throat. “I have spoken with the vawden and agreed terms. They are waiting on our instructions.”
“You understand what it is the Triumvirate wish from you?”
“Yes, eminence.”
“Good. Do not disappoint them.”
Chairs scraped over the floor, and moments later Murzel swept through the room, barely glancing at Palona as he passed. Her uncle appeared by her side, waiting until Murzel had gone before laying a hand on her shoulder.
“You understand you must never repeat anything of what you have just heard?”
“Yes, uncle,” Palona said.
The truth was she hadn't understood much of it at all. As she listened, her mind had returned to the problem of the ball, and what she could do about Scora.
He gave her an indulgent smile. “That's good. Now what was it you needed from me so urgently?”
H'nChae
IN H'NCHAE rain cascaded from the sky throughout the day. Brightly coloured double-winged flyers and the clouds of tiny biting insects they pursued took advantage of brief lulls in the downpour to venture out from beneath the forest canopy.
Under the carpet of knee-high soft green stalks, the ground was spongy, and each footstep created a small water-filled depression. Orim's boots held out for most of the morning, until water penetrated the leather, soaking through to his feet, and weighing each step down as he climbed up the endless slope. His outer garments had fared little better, giving up in stages, until the vest on his shoulders and back were wet through.
Orim's cheg guide, called Cuigulem, seemed unaffected by either the rain or small biters. Cuigulem's thick fur deflected water and baffled the encroaching insects, and his broad-padded feet spread easily to gain purchase on the wet ground. Strong, grasping finger-like toes allowed the cheg to dig into the soft ground for purchase or grasp protruding rocks on rougher slopes with any of their six limbs.
Orim had no doubt Cuigulem could have travelled far faster without him, but had politely kept to the same pace throughout the journey, waiting patiently for him as he struggled up the same steep sections it managed with ease.
Orim could feel the relentless climb, weighed down with saturated clothes, starting to drain his endurance. He hadn’t slept in a day and a night, and the strips of salty smoked meat he chewed to maintain his energy were gone.
A youth spent climbing in the snow-swept Lindarfelarn mountains had hardened his muscles and built huge reserves of endurance, but also taught him to recognise the early signs of failing strength. Old injuries started to ache in the cold damp, and more than once he had nearly slipped down a scree face as he missed his footing.
H'nChae was a distant bromal world, almost at the outer limit for effective casting, and impossible to reach by walking the between for any but the strongest. Orim's journey from Vergence had taken many hours, and drained him.
Even navigating by world-ship was reputedly difficult, time consuming, occasionally dangerous, and seldom undertaken without good reason. Orim had confidence he'd find Spetimane if he'd remained in H'nChae. It would be impossible for Spetimane to escape alone, as the man lacked the ability, and world-ship visits were infrequent at best.
He'd experienced a rare moment of bafflement when the white robe at the quarters of the tutors chapter told him the man Spetimane had pretended to be, had accepted a post in H'nChae teaching Volanian to potential guard recruits, but after three quar
ters of a day trudging up a rain sodden mountain, he could see why.
Far-sensing worked poorly or not at all. His Scaehrum were dormant, almost indistinguishable to his touch from the metal armbands they imitated, and his Wispensilt cloak had evaporated to nothing as he set foot in H'nChae. Replacing it would require another costly bargain with the rulers of Uspelen, and in the meantime he had to hunt Spetimane down the hard way.
There were no maps for H’nChae in Vergence library. Even the ever resourceful Ben-gan had managed to uncover nothing after a lengthy search in the archives and restricted sections.
It seemed a strange omission to Orim, but Ben-gan had provided him with a rough sketch from memory, and described what he might expect. What Ben-gan told him had not been reassuring. The cheg lived scattered amongst hundreds of islands which formed a loose crescent across a thousand leagues of turbulent ocean.
Most of the larger islands were hundreds of leagues of steep mountains and forests, except in the north where small clans of herders ranged over icy windswept territories. There were likely hundreds of entirely unknown smaller islands. Amongst the cheg there were as many languages and dialects as islands, and very few would know how to speak any form of Volanian.
Orim had arrived at dawn on the outskirts of a small hamlet amidst tall trees. High palisades surrounded the perimeter on three sides, crowding the heavy log buildings against the edge of a jagged drop, which fell a dozen yards to the ocean below.
Initially, Orim had been treated as an object of mild curiosity by the passing cheg, but otherwise ignored, until a cheg elder noticed him, and then he’d struggled to explain his purpose. The cheg elder knew fewer than a dozen words in Old Volanian, but after a patient exchange eventually provided Cuigulem as a guide to show him to Armaseptur, a term Orim recognised as meaning something like a warrior camp or training ground.
For a while Cuigulem had been heading towards a distant hammering noise. At first, Orim mistook the sound for an animal, but as they closed on the source it became clearer, and the rhythm suggested work. Cuigulem guided him up a section of smooth rocks, turned left at the top, and headed into the forest.
