Half the heirs of the West started in unfeigned shock while Gentian passed through a moment of complete disbelief. Everyone talked about Darest being cursed. It had been failing for centuries: a gradual, inexorable decline, and Dariens habitually blamed every setback or obstacle on a villainous Fae curse. But for the Fair to curse Darest would be to go against their own strict laws, and no trace of such a monumental spell had ever been discovered. No trace.
And yet Aristide had spoken with complete assurance, and now leaned back in his chair, brilliant eyes pensive. "This I have from the Fair," he continued. "Telsandar was a sacred place to them. A disaster they refuse to discuss killed its inhabitants and afterwards 'the region was held to be tainted'. Exactly what this taint is I don't know, but the Fair believe they cannot safely live within our borders. They are forbidden from lingering here for more than brief periods, and even suspect that the taint affects the neighbouring kingdoms, causing friction, enmity. But not among humans, which was why Darest was given in gift to the Rathens."
Apparently entertained by his audience's fixed regard, he stopped, pouring himself a glass of wine.
While Gentian mulled over this unexpected explanation, Lady Dhara made a gesture, half appreciation, half disparagement. "So we have a Ban on Shaping Fae, and an ancient Fae who must surely be Shaped, whose name is abandoned, sealed in a city from centuries past. In a kingdom suffering from some malign horror that actually makes the Fair afraid to live in it. This Suldar could be the problem or its jailer, and in either case we had best lock our doors tonight. And our conclusions are all just so much air 'til we investigate further. Well, I would appreciate some speculation from you, Lord Couerveur. Did this Suldar speak the truth, when she claimed not to be our kidnapper?"
"The Fair rarely lie directly." With the faintest of shrugs, Aristide sipped his wine, then glanced distractedly at Captain Djol. The smell of frying onions was no doubt doing acute things to more than Gentian's stomach. "At this point, the best we can do is eat, sleep. Shall we reconvene this discussion tomorrow morning, after some preliminary investigation?"
No-one objected. Tired enough to accept simple sense? Or perhaps it was Captain Djol's cooking, which proved to be a kind of fried flat-bread, pleasantly salty, studded with onion rings and quite possibly the most delicious thing Gentian had ever eaten. The day had made her hungry.
Looking around the table, she decided that the lull in hostilities was a sign their situation was sinking in. Not so easy to digest, the prospect of being trapped here for days or months. Years? While their respective peoples searched, and their enemies moved to fill the vacuum they'd left behind.
And Darest was torn apart?
"Aurak Bes."
It was Prince Chenar who had spoken, and Gentian was not alone in looking up sharply. The words had a steely note, as if Chenar had worked his way to a difficult resolution.
Kubara Bes had certainly caught the warning. The smile he bestowed on the Saxan prince was positively grandfatherly: a sure sign in Gentian's experience that the Aurak detected dangerous waters. "How may I help you, Prince Chenar?"
"You believe that creature's performance is linked to the shield which traps us here?"
The Aurak nodded. "There is an echo in the patterns, certainly. The shielding is set enchantment, but–" He paused, then went on with an air of candour: "Such an enchantment needs to be fuelled, and the more I regard it, the more certain it appears that it is Suldar who maintains this place. There are at least no other visible candidates."
"So, whether we believe her protestations of innocence or not, it is this Fae who is our gaoler?"
The Aurak regarded him for a long moment, then inclined his head judicially. "That is the most straightforward construction, Prince. The shield keeps us here. The shield is maintained by Suldar. She has refused to lift it. I do not advise taking this path to its conclusion."
"I'm not dismissing the risks and the – the wrong of it." Chenar looked frankly miserable. "But, while of course we must search, investigate, while we can hope for some other solution, when invention fails we will have to face her. Deal with her."
"Yes."
It was Aristide who had answered so promptly, cold as his namesake diamond. Gentian blinked at his steady profile, and felt suddenly lost. What was going on, that they talked of death before looking for a way out, that they even imagined they could succeed? What was Aristide, to agree without qualm or hesitation?
"Deal with her how?" Lady Dhara asked. "Sun–!"
Princess Kestia put a hand on her wife's arm, and the woman bit back further response as the Cyan princess' frozen mask turned from Chenar to Aristide, the drowsing child resting against her chest testament to what she had to risk in any attack. The couple's two daughters were white-faced statues.
"What consequence, Couerveur?" she asked, her dry, definite voice low and uncompromising. "What alternative? This Suldar has given us...guest-rights? Does that not mean we enjoy a certain immunity, which would be lost in any attack?"
"It is rare for the Fair to kill when no offence has been committed," Aristide agreed, unruffled. "But their laws are harsh, and easy to break unintentionally. Under the strictest Fae codes, Suldar could have executed us for the trespass alone, and that she has not is an acknowledgement that we did not come here by choice. I would not interpret her words so broadly as guest-rights, but whatever the case we would certainly invite retribution should she notice us trying to murder her."
The word 'murder' was not well received, but since they had no hope at all of killing Suldar in open battle, 'dealing with her' could hardly mean anything else. For the crime of saying no. There was a brief pause, but though Chenar's glance wavered, he lifted his chin and gritted his teeth. And they all had to admit it was true: whether Suldar had brought them there or not, she was the one who prevented them from leaving.
Princess Kestia compressed her lips, but bowed her head a fraction. "If–"
Jurasel cut his sister short. "You needn't think Cya unready to face the matter."
"We are not yet at the point where this question needs to be discussed," Kestia continued, quite as if her brother hadn't spoken.
A red glint appeared in Jurasel's eyes and he straightened, emphasising height and muscle and reminding them all he was Cya's heir. His choice to commit, deny or delay. Kestia turned her head to stare at him coldly, and for a moment Gentian thought the simmering antagonism would finally explode. But Jurasel relaxed back just as suddenly, and waved a negligent hand. "We've no need to run head-first to the worst option. But it is one to keep in mind." He looked across the table at Princess Aloren, inviting her agreement, and the Cerian princess responded with a slow smile.
Then, as if they had set a case before a judge, they all turned to Aurak Bes. Gentian had tried to anticipate his response, working her way through the complexities of the Atlaran precepts. They were rules to govern the way mages dealt with each other, and with those who couldn't draw magic. But Suldar turned the precepts on their head: compared to this hidden Fae the mightiest of the true-mages around this table were ants. Were senserel. And that, of course, gave her the answer.
"I cannot like that course," the Aurak said gravely. "And fear the wrongs we might commit if we act before we have fully investigated. But I agree that the path of honourable challenge is not open to us. If this Suldar is proved descoar then–" He paused, his expression well-suited to a man at a funeral. "Then our freedom must be won by any means."
ooOoo
Gentian was so overwhelmed by the idea of Kubara Bes agreeing to contemplate murder that she barely took in the little scene that followed, with Heresar suggesting to Jurasel that they should make their base in another building, and Jurasel promptly offering Aloren Cya's protection. Which inspired Chenar to a counter-offer, while Aloren smiled, and weighed their answers, and watched them look daggers at each other before announcing herself well situated already, enjoying the hospitality of Darest.
They were all tedious a
nd bizarre. Gentian was glad when the Cyans and Saxans took themselves off, and even more pleased when Aloren joined the Atlarans in investigating the floors above for suitable sleeping chambers. Enough of temper and drama and dark plots.
Not that a bit of Sun-blessed silence brought her any answers. To be descoar was to be a monster in attitude or spirit. A creature of immense power which treated those less than itself as nothing: as toys, dirt. In robbing the less powerful of their dignities, descoar forfeited a right to existence, became a thing to be exterminated. Something you could kill in all justice to set yourself free. When she'd passed through the shield-wall, Gentian had thought she'd wanted to find a monster in Telsandar, a thing she could kill. But even if she could imagine a way to do it, she found herself less than taken with the idea of killing Suldar.
Aristide Couerveur cast a true-spell, something understated and too quickly done to catch intent. And then he sat sipping a dark red wine and considering her over the rim of the glass, his expression very like a craftsman faced with an uncertain tool. His apprentice, the only other person left in the kitchen, shifted uneasily, drawing that vivid gaze on himself.
"And how much time do we have to look for alternatives?" Gentian asked softly. "How long before we're supposed to start playing assassin?"
"The answer is likely to be 'however much the Aurak requires'. Between the advantages of Atlaran goodwill, and the minor point of not attacking until we think we can win, I suspect we'll have time enough to thoroughly explore other options."
"Oh." The flood of relief was dizzying, quite like she'd stood up too quickly and had to catch herself before she fell over. Gentian blinked, then let out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. "I see. They'd have worked themselves up more if you'd objected. Aurak Bes is neutral enough for his opposition to be accepted. But he committed to it too. If he judges her truly descoar, he will be first in any attack."
Aristide's gaze was cool and steady. "You needn't doubt that I would consider killing this Regent of Telsandar, Magister, if the cost of remaining here rose too high. And I thought it actually possible. Justice rarely holds against self-interest."
"But is self-interest proof against temper?" Aspen glanced quickly at the door, looking almost as excited as he was worried. "They weren't just pretending to be angry."
"Anger is perhaps more of a threat to self-interest, but they are none of them suicidal, nor eager to spend the remainder of their lives trapped in Darest's past. Which in turn should afford us some protection."
Gentian remembered Aspen's warnings. "Are they really all so eager to kill you?"
"They'd not weep to see me dead. But, unless there is a straightforward exit to stumble over, leaving this valley will take a high order of magery, and our entrance will have taught them a lesson. They'll at least weigh the risk of depriving themselves of Darien mages."
He glanced at his apprentice.
"Exercise some basic caution, Choraide. Try to minimise the opportunities and reasons for anyone to find you an annoyance." He produced a particularly dry expression, and let it slide to include Gentian. "Don't forget who these people are, what setting them at odds might mean to Darest. If you must sleep with them, say 'thank you' nicely after."
Aspen, unabashed by this instruction, simply murmured, "I'll try not to disappoint," but it was all too much for Gentian, who choked into laughter.
"How very pragmatic you are, Lord Magister," she managed. "You almost reconcile me to being trapped in Darest." She paused, finding an unexpected core of truth in the words, and spoke unwarily when she added: "I didn't think anyone could do that."
Delicate brows rose. "You overwhelm me, Magister. Such praise."
He didn't understand the immensity of what she'd said. For Gentian, staying in Darest was madness, a kind of suicide. She couldn't, wouldn't do that to herself. Yet the thought of walking away from Aristide Couerveur brought a growing sense of loss. Not a good development.
"But I interrupted you, Lord Magister," she said lightly, while her blood fizzed in her ears. "Were you going to tell us anything other than to be careful who we sleep with?"
Aspen made a strangled noise, but her return to composure brought a hint of appreciation to Aristide's eyes. "Ask rather than tell, Magister," he said, with a mildness that simply shouted consequences. "I would like to hear your explanation for this."
He cast, sweeping illusion across the table-top. A hill rose from dark wood, was matched by a valley. Both were roughly circular. Each had at its centre a pavilion: one of living trees, the other stone. Both pavilions were surrounded by a square cross in a knotwork frame.
The sight had struck her a blow a few hours earlier, but had lost the power to dismay, dwarfed by this over-nice politician.
"You have an excellent eye for detail, Lord Magister," she said, idiot light-headedness receding but not entirely lost. And then she felt suddenly, overwhelmingly tired. One day was too short to lose herself and find someone else. Any more self-revelation would be an ocean too much.
She leaned forward, studying hill and valley while she tried to think what she could possibly say. The illusions were constructed with a craftsman's flair, only the occasional blurred patches on Vostal Hill – little more than swatches of leafy colour – to betray that he'd conjured them direct from memory. The valley, though considerably larger, was even more precisely rendered. He'd had the length of their walk down to look it over, and apparently was a type who did not forget.
But then, his reputation had told her that already, and painted him equally disinclined to forgive. He had his full attention on her now, an unnerving sensation, but despite his earlier darts she did not think him hostile. Merely focused on the problem.
Meeting that very thoughtful gaze frankly she said: "I wish I had an explanation. I've never seen this place before, neither heard nor guessed at its existence. I can't even claim convenient visionary dreams. I thought Vostal Hill my own creation and...I don't think it is."
It hit her again, that overwhelming sense of betrayal. She had seen Vostal Hill, and wrought from her heart a suitable frame for its crown. But that shape was not her own.
Aristide had listened without showing any sign of whether he believed her, and now turned his head away, gazing into nothing. The illusions sank back into the table.
It gave her a marvellous sense of powerlessness, to find herself suddenly so very interested in his reaction. A very sharp, not entirely unpleasant sensation that made her wish she wanted to want him.
"Do you suppose the pavilion serves the same purpose?" she asked restively, when he still did not speak. "A focus to bring together the Court of the Fair?"
"That is certainly worth investigating." And he stood up, adding only: "We will talk of this tomorrow, Magister."
Gentian glimpsed her own confusion on Aspen's face as Aristide carried his glass and plate across to one of the benches. Since the conversation had been heading in a direction she hated to go, she was relieved to put it off, but why had he?
Then she caught it. The faintest swirl of intent, of power shaped by will. A scry, shielded so that even she could barely sense its presence. They were being spied upon.
The spell Aristide had cast earlier must have been a detect. He'd anticipated this, guessed that one of their unfriendly fellows would try to listen. And heard, what? Certainly her comment about the pavilion. Possibly more. If it was a visual scry, they'd have definitely seen the design for Vostal Hill.
Gentian was almost grateful. The spy had bought her time, a chance to think about the necessity of talking about her childhood, about Suldar, gardens, and wanting someone who was devoted to a land that would destroy her.
And an absence of hate.
Chapter Nine
The Fair hadn't taken their clothes with them. Aspen, waking in slow degrees to birdsong and ever-brighter surveys of the bedroom he'd chosen, found himself waiting for the owner to step back in. It was the book, facedown on the wide windowsill. The way the chair w
as drawn back from the desk. Worst, a pair of gloves set down on a table by the door, still retaining the shape of slender, tapering fingers.
He was sleeping in that person's bed, crumpling their crisp sheets. By now Aspen had given up any vague hope that the people of Telsandar had packed up and left, though far too much time had passed for their deaths to linger tangibly. The Diamond's revelations, and the sheer absence of any packing, conjured instead a screaming rout from which no-one had escaped. None but Suldar, Dusk, thousand-year Fae. This was no place to linger.
On the other hand, there was Aloren, Rua Ketu, Jurasel, Chenar. And Aristide. Denied his Vaselte, his Robar, the rest of his small army of hand-picked servitors, Aristide had already started to draw Aspen in. Progress.
Knowing the Diamond to be the last person to have a lazy lie-in, Aspen rolled himself out of bed and puzzled his way through morning routines in an abandoned Fae mansion. He'd discovered the absence of chamber pots the previous night, and after tracking down a purpose-built lavatory had noted with a faint sense of foreboding that the functional enchantments had lapsed, despite the preservation spells. If they were stuck here for any appreciable time the whole system would need to be investigated and re-established. A tiresome, tedious and difficult task all too likely to be pushed Aspen's way.
Someone had been cleaning up in the kitchen, one of that strange race of creatures who thought nothing of greeting the cold light of dawn. Aspen poked about, noting that here, too, the functional enchantment was missing. The flat kindling stones were dead, without a trace of even Lady Dhara's temporary enchantment. The water barrel was nearly full, but the spout above unresponsive. More work.
After an apple and a glass of watered wine, Aspen headed out the front door, and immediately spotted the Diamond in the pavilion on the central island. Just like on Vostal Hill there was a throne for the Queen of the Fair, though unlike the pavilion in Tor Darest there was no matching seat for a human ruler. The Diamond was standing motionless before this version, but Aspen was too far away to tell if he was casting or just imagining how he'd look on it.
Bones of the Fair Page 10
