I returned to the turret room with my hair wound into a sodden turban and pulled a seat into the sun. I forced myself to concentrate on toweling it, combing the tangles out and rubbing in a slippery herbal liquid Katlyn had given me as a gift to make it shine. Then I fetched the pile of plasts Jak had lent me, Tomash’s rough chart, and the heavy dream journal Dell had sent up. Settling myself so that the weight of my hair caught the sun’s direct rays, I grabbed the pile of plasts resolutely. I did not feel like reading them, but better that than worrying endlessly about Rushton.
He will come, I told myself, and focused my mind on the plasts. A brief riffle through made it clear most were similar to other Reichler Clinic plasts, ostensibly advertising the Clinic while downplaying its successes. Written between the lines was the offer of friendship and help to anyone with Misfit abilities. They were cleverly composed missives, and I wondered exactly who had put them together.
I spotted a mention of Govamen and flamebirds.
Govamen are using flamebirds for their experiments, which naturally outrages animal welfare groups, as the birds are virtually on the edge of extinction. The director of the institute handling the research says that scientists chose the bird for the very qualities that have endangered it and that their team is not the cause
The plast ended suddenly, indicating that it was part of a longer document. There was no telling who it had been to or from, nor its purpose.
I glanced over the other plasts until I found another mentioning the birds.
Demands by animal welfare groups for a review of the breeding program and for the opportunity to monitor the experimental use of the flamebirds were met with a refusal by head of security at the institute, Mr. Petr Masterton. He reminded reporters that as the research was being conducted by an organization employed by the World Council, it must be assumed to have the highest moral and ethical standards.
Petr Masterton! I reread the name in disbelief, thinking back to my memory dream. Seeing the name here was proof positive that Cassy had lived at the same time as Hannah and the Reichler Clinic and that she had been connected to the Govamen that had kidnapped Misfits from the Reichler Clinic.
I flicked through the remaining plasts but found only one other mention of the birds, a description that confirmed conclusively that they were the Agyllians in the Beforetime, if I had doubted it.
I laid the plasts aside and turned my attention to Tomash’s work. Unscrolling his rough-inked map of the Land, I looked for the information he had added about individual Councilmen’s holdings. Radost’s sons, Moss and Bergold, were written in neatly, their territories marked out to show their common border. Tomash had written in tiny script that Moss had elected to extend Darthnor’s mining into his holding and eventually to open a smelter that would process his private mine yield as well as that of the Darthnor mines. Currently, Darthnor mines sent all their ore to the west coast to be processed.
Bergold had elected to transform his holding into orchard land. Later he would sell the fresh fruit, as well as dried and bottled fruit and sauces. In brackets, Tomash had written that his sister, Analivia, dwelt with him.
I let my eyes run farther over the map. The Councilmen used their holdings in a variety of ways, from farming, logging, and horse breeding to establishments for dye works and smelting. Radost operated a slaughterhouse in Sutrium. On the west coast, where there was little arable land, fishing was key, with Councilmen owning small fishing fleets and fish-drying plants.
At the map’s bottom were further notes explaining that in addition to their land holdings, all the Councilmen had interests in numerous smaller concerns that brought them a small but steady trickle of coin. Many Councilmen also had money sunk in businesses within the cities they ruled. They used their positions shamelessly to advance their interests and to extinguish rivalry and competition, with the notable exception of Noviny in Saithwold, a man who seemed, by all reports, to be just and good and widely respected in his area.
A timid knock at the door roused me. I sat up and farsent an invitation, whereupon a beaming Aras entered, accompanied by a wide-eyed child with cornflower blue eyes and a curly mop of dark hair. I racked my mind to think of the child’s name as they deposited their trays.
“Twyna,” Ceirwan farsent, for, of course, he had been following their progress. “She is Lina’s younger sister an’ has slight farseekin’ Talent.”
I invited them to drink a sip of preserved berry juice to celebrate the start of moon-fair day. The toast was a tradition, and the tray Aras bore held a tiny silver jug and three glasses kept especially for this purpose.
I suggested Aras make the toast, and she flushed with pleasure. “To this day, Guildmistress. That it be bright, and with it, all the days thereafter.”
It was gracefully said, but a grim part of my mind knew that all days were not ever going to be bright. The most you could expect was that there would be more bright days than dark ones. Repressing a swirl of superstitious unease, I clinked glasses with them and we drank. Twyna drank so fast she almost choked, and Aras pounded her between the shoulder blades.
“Killing yourself would be a bad omen to bring to the day,” I chided.
“She’s nervous,” Aras explained, putting her arm about the smaller girl. Then she smiled shyly. “I am, too, a bit. I did not know I would be the one to come up in Ceirwan’s place. It’s too great an honor for me.”
“Never,” I said firmly. “We are very pleased with how hard you have worked and how much you have put into the new mindmerge, not to mention coming up with it in the first place.”
Aras’s eyes sparkled. “I really think we are on the verge of it working,” she said. “Zarak and I have been practicing and practicing in our spare time.”
“Zarak?”
She nodded, her smile disappearing. “I know you are angry with him because of how he was last time in the practice, Guildmistress, but he is very good usually.”
“He lets ambition cloud his mind,” I said coolly.
“No, indeed,” Aras said earnestly. “In fact, just yesterday, he was at me to agree to be a ward, because he thinks I am the only one fit for filling Matthew’s shoes. I said he ought to be one, because he was more Talented, and he said Talent was the smaller part of being a ward. He said you had to be fit for it in your heart and soul, and he was the least fit of all in those things.” She shrugged her bemusement, but I was well pleased.
When they had gone, I lifted the cover on my tray and smiled to find a stack of golden pancakes dripping with butter and honey-syrup, and another jug of preserved blackberry cordial. There were also bowls of cream and soft cheese for Maruman. I set these on the ground near the fire, thinking he would sniff his way to them when he was hungry enough.
I sipped at my cordial and flipped over the more recent pages of the futuretellers’ master dream journal. Individual dreamers were only identified by guild and Talents—perhaps I had misjudged Maryon’s ability to recognize people’s sensitivity about their dreams. There were a good number of entries featuring the dragon, though never in any particularly threatening way unless Matthew or I were also in the dream, in which case we were the only targets of the beast’s aggression.
I read:
I dreamed of Matthew, who was Farseeker ward before he was taken away by slavers. He looked older than I remember, and he was standing with a girl who had long moon-pale hair and a sad face. The girl was weeping, and he was comforting her. A big stout man with a beard came to them. “You can’t stand out here like this,” he said. “They don’t like seeing us acting human. It makes them feel guilty, and that makes them angry because to them, we are dumb beasts who have no right to feelings.”
“One day they will learn that neither we nor beasts are dumb,” Matthew said.
The big man scowled at him. “Such talk will get us all whipped or killed.”
Then the dragon flew at them, and I woke as it caught hold of Matthew.
Leafing on, I came to another mention of M
atthew.
I dreamed of a building like the Councilcourt, only twenty times more grand and made of reddish stone all carved into lions and bears and other beasts. It stood in the midst of a dense city with packed-earth streets rather than proper paving stones or gravel. All of the buildings looked to be of reddish stone or mud bricks, and none ever rose more than two levels above the street, except this one. It was so hot you could imagine they never had to think of mud or slush or even snow. There was no grass or trees anywhere.
I saw the Farseeker ward Matthew with some other men. They were all carrying heavy loads of rocks in baskets and wore sandals and short skirts belted at the waist. They brought their loads into the courtyard of the biggest building, and as they laid them down, Matthew gave a gasp. He was staring at one of the walls, but I could not see what had caught his attention.
“What’s the matter with you?” one of his companions asked him.
“Th’ woman in th’ carving … she … she reminds me of someone …,” he stammered.
The other man laughed, but his face was so sad it seemed more like weeping. “Would that you had seen that woman, for she is our queen vanished these long years past. It is said she will return to us one day.”
“Get moving, man,” another man said, shoving Matthew. He glared at the other. “And you shut that stupid mystical babble about the Red Queen coming back. Everyone knows she’s dead.”
Then the dragon appeared, smashing through the wall and howling. It snatched Matthew up, and he screamed as it bit into him.
I shuddered but forced myself to read on. There were two more brief entries within which Matthew appeared, breaking rock with a mallet in some sort of quarry, and a third entry of him staring at boats in a harbor. Finally, I laid the book aside, thinking of the similar details reported by the dreamers. It could only mean that they had seen Matthew in reality—a slave in a hot, red land over the sea.
“Are you coming, Elspeth?” Gevan’s coercive mental prod hammered into my mind.
I sent that I would come as soon as I had visited the Healer hall.
“Make it fast, then. You can collect Roland and the twins on the way.”
I gave my almost dry hair a shake to loosen it and dressed hurriedly. The shawl I had been gifted was incredibly soft against my skin, and the slippers fit perfectly. I dabbed on some rose oil and ran downstairs, leaving the door ajar for Maruman.
Roland and Kella met me at the entrance to the Healer hall, their eyes widening as they took in my finery.
“Oh, Elspeth! You look beautiful!” Kella sighed, fingering the embroidered shawl. She was dressed in her normal drab gray and white skirt and shirt, the little owl fixed to her shoulder like an oversize shawl brooch. Seeing my amusement, she said it was less trouble to let it use her as a perch than to have it fly about, banging into things looking for her.
Miky and Angina came out of their borrowed chamber, clad in matching lavender tunics with violet trimmings.
“You did a good job last night,” I told them warmly. “The dragon did not once visit me in the night.”
“It was more tiring than I expected,” Angina admitted.
“Oughtn’t you to be sleeping now?”
“I had a couple of hours when I was sure everyone else was awake,” the empath said. “But I don’t want to miss the moon fair.”
“But tonight …,” I began.
“He will be fine,” Roland rumbled. “I’ll siphon off fatigue until I can’t stay awake, then Kella will relieve me. It’s just a pity the dragon isn’t as charmed by Miky’s music. It would have been a lot simpler for them to alternate.”
“I wonder why it prefers your music, Angina,” I said. “After all, Miky is a fine musician as well.”
“Better than I am,” Angina said firmly. “Stronger.”
“Maybe so, but strength is obviously not what Dragon needs,” Miky said.
The subject lapsed as we came out into the sunlit courtyard where Maryon and Dell, clad in palest blue tunics, waited with Garth. The Teknoguildmaster merely wore a cleaner version of his normal brown tunic, and Gevan was dressed in a shining black robe trimmed with rather gaudy red cloth flowers, but beside him, Miryum looked no different than usual, her clothes as somber as her expression. I guessed her mind was less on the moon fair than on the meeting she must later have with the Sadorian, Straaka. I would have to find a moment during the day to let her know what I had told him.
“I have the potmetal bracelets,” Garth said. “I also have some exciting news!”
“Let’s get moving while you talk,” Gevan pressed, and ushered us into the maze. Most of the snow was melted now, and the leaves were losing their numbed look.
“You found the base of the Reichler Clinic building?” I guessed.
He nodded. “It was buried under a mass of silt and mud, and though that is going to be cursed difficult to shift, there is at least one level above the ground intact. This means the main entrance is accessible.”
“What about the basement?” I asked.
“Well, that will be trickier, but I think we will manage it,” Garth said, looking positively demonic in his enthusiasm.
Alad was waiting for us at the farm gate, clad in moss-green velvet. With him were Gahltha, Faraf, and the pale-eyed Rasial on behalf of the beasts, and Louis Larkin on behalf of the unTalents. He had even brushed his wild mop of hair, which made him look only slightly less ferocious than usual. The rest of Obernewtyn’s populace was arrayed by the barns in the distance. The sight of them, Talents, unTalents, and beasts assembled together, brought a lump to my throat.
Alad welcomed me to the farms formally as Master of Obernewtyn in Rushton’s stead. Then he welcomed the other guildleaders and our Sadorian guests, and led the way down the orchard path to the crowd assembled around the small grassy patch under a pear tree where Rushton traditionally spoke to open the festivities. I made a short speech praising everyone for their work during the year and inviting them to enjoy the day of rest and celebration. My words felt uninspired and brusque. In truth, I felt rather nervous having to talk to so many people all at once.
Dell then retold the story of the Battlegames in Sador with simple eloquence, pointing to the self-knowledge we had acquired in losing to the rebels. When she unfurled her guild’s annual gift to Obernewtyn, there was a universal sigh. The tapestry was truly magnificent. None of the futuretellers had ever seen the desert lands, yet they had managed to capture perfectly the burning dryness and blinding salt-white heat of the sand dunes, contrasting them with the carved stone cliffs and the dazzling blue of the sea. They had even included a ship and several ship fish at one corner.
I thanked them for their gift, managing to be slightly less stilted, because most of the audience were concentrating on the tapestry. “We have made many efforts to redefine ourselves since the Battlegames. Let us hope that we will soon see the fruit of our efforts ripen. Let us hope that just as Gevan’s magi are applauded and admired, Misfits, too, will someday be accepted at last.” I paused, searching for a way to end my speech, but I realized there was one important thing yet to be said.
“This tapestry also reminds me of another thing, and that is the absence of our beloved Empath guildmaster. I know you are all as disappointed as I am not to have him with us today. He remains with the Sadorians in order to receive high and deserved honors from the tribes, which will further cement our friendship with them. But our honored Sadorian guests have promised to faithfully render a tapestry of words to him of this day so that he can share it with us.”
There was a spontaneous burst of clapping, and I stepped back with relief, my task done. Alad took my place and invited everyone to find a soft piece of grass and wait for oiled groundsheets to be handed out. After everyone was seated, midmeal would be served.
The guildleaders traditionally sat together at the celebratory moon-fair midmeal. We spread two large canvases and a scatter of cushions under the pear tree and were soon joined by Enoch and Louis Larkin a
nd by the Sadorians. Miryum slipped away to join her coercer-knights, and I saw Straaka’s eyes follow her with longing, but he made no move to go after her.
Katlyn’s helpers handed out plates and knives and sturdy mugs, and I leaned my back against the pear tree and breathed in the delicious savory smell of pies and pastries and herbed soups.
“You seem very self-satisfied,” Alad said, looking amused.
“And why not,” I said, smiling lazily at him. “It is a beautiful day, and a splendid feast is about to be laid out for us. And although my words were less impressive than Rushton would have managed, they are over and done with.”
“Truly no one has his gift for speechmaking,” Roland said. “But I daresay he’ll make up for it tonight at the guilding ceremony. And I am very curious to hear what news he’ll bring from the lowlands.”
Gevan said, “I might just as well tell you all that Enoch has just brought me news that the Councilman of Sawlney wants the magi to play at his daughter’s bonding ceremony. The invitation and a request to see that it reaches us was made to a group of halfbreed gypsies who, of course, knew nothing of us. By sheer chance, Enoch heard them deliberating about which troupe it could be.”
“You want to accept it?” I asked.
“I do. It is too good an opportunity to miss.”
“You will have to present the whole thing to guildmerge,” I said.
Gevan nodded and reached for a slice of pie.
As soon as the main part of the feast had been consumed and we had moved on to little preserved-berry pies and lemon tarts, a good number of empaths vanished into the barn.
“What is happening now?” Bruna demanded.
“We are about to see a performance,” Alad told her. “Each guild has an offering for this moon fair, a sort of gift. There are displays from the Teknoguild, and—”
A bell clanged, and Miky and Angina emerged from the barn wearing billowing violet cloaks over their clothes. They bowed in unison; then Miky spoke in a clear, strong voice. “Our moon-fair offering is not a story of things that truly happened but a created story under which slumbers a deeper truth than can be told with mere facts.”
The Rebellion Page 56
