by Carol Berg
I spread my arms wide and bent my knee. “My lord father, I am as you have made me. Teach me as you will. You know my hunger.”
No longer could we maintain secrets of the heart. His joy and triumph were as exposed to my viewing as my own desires were bared to him. Yet I was in the more vulnerable state. I was an artwork newly created from a malformed original, and the artist yet maintained his control over my shaping. Indeed, as he walked across the patterned carpets of dark green and red, his midnight eyes locked to my own, I felt his breath blowing on the fire within me, nurturing the white-hot flame that was scouring my soul and memory, cleansing me of the impurities of my hybrid birth. I was starving for fuel that only he could give, the power that would transform this flame into a holocaust. I gave no consideration to what was being destroyed, only to the magnificence that would remain.
From behind me came a loud crack. Kasparian had snapped a stick as thick as my wrist and thrown it on the hearth fire. He snatched another stick from the basket and then drew his knife, and began to shave long slivers of wood from the dry stick with the ease of slicing cake. The splinters fell onto a pile on the clay-colored hearth tiles at his feet.
My father’s eyes never left me nor did my own stray from his face for long, though the image of Kasparian’s hungry knife now lay atop my mind like a thin coverlet, a distraction. My own dagger, sheathed in finely tooled leather, lay heavy against my bare flank. Ironic that Kasparian’s interruption should remind me of it. The devoted Madonai would be appalled.
“So at last you have answered your own question,” said my father. “When I first discovered you among the shadows in such bitter exile, I wanted to tell you then of your true identity. But you were so full of anger—rightly so—and you had so little memory of your heritage. Not enough to build on.”
“And I refused to dream in Kir‘Vagonoth,” I said, gasping for air enough to speak beneath his smothering attention. “I hated taking on flesh, and so you had no way to speak to me.”
“No matter. I was so proud of your strength and grace. And then you found the other, your human partner, your match in every way. How the powers of the universe have blessed us, my son, after so long an agony to send this good Warden to save us both. When I learned how you planned to join with him, I decided to do whatever I could to bring you here, giving you some hint of your rightful place in the world. You needed to understand that I bore you no ill will. Far from it. I wanted to give you everything.” My father laid his hand on my cheek, leaving every nerve, every muscle, every fiber of my body awake and quivering as if a knife blade had traced their shape. “Still, I could not let myself believe you would forgive me, and so I laid these petty traps and snares. You’ve seen more clearly than I. And now I am humbled by your trust ... to bring this child of your body to live here.” He withdrew his hand, and I leaned forward trying to hold the connection. But he folded his arms across his green-shirted chest and did not seem to notice. “And so we come to the culmination. You are a vessel, prepared to receive a gift unlike any given since—”
“Please, Father.” I could scarcely hear his words for my raging hunger. Without his power to complete my own, I was little more than a withered husk, incomplete, unviable, an aberration, born not of nature but of enchantment.
He laughed and opened his arms, spreading his cloak wide as if he had wings of his own, transformed in that instant to the young god who had sired me. “Open your heart, Valdis my son, and receive what you need of me.”
The sight of his broad chest, exposed and vulnerable, led my hand to my knife hilt. Somewhere beyond the tumultuous madness of my desire lay the certainty that this was a moment that would never come again, a moment of safety, of necessity, of duty. But I could not kill him. The being named Kerouan had once been beautiful and holy, and even now he wished me only good. He was my father. I loved him and could consider no demand of duty that would do him harm. A fading voice within me affirmed this resolution, insisting that violating this conviction would be my own surest road to corruption and madness. Faith, said the voice. It all comes down to faith. And so I let the moment pass and fell into a blue-black sea. The Nameless God embraced me, and I was filled.
CHAPTER 42
“There’s three persons come to the garden,” said the conjured servant, a plain-faced woman who looked as though she might dissolve in the storm wind that raked the castle ramparts. “They say they’re here at your command, Lord Valdis, though they do not address you by your proper name.”
I stopped in mid-stretch. My shoulders were tight after three days of nasty winter weather, and though I had no intention of flying off into the howling wind and sleet, I had come to the open heights where I could extend my wings and flex them properly. I could shape the wings at will, and thus had no reason to retain them all the time, but I felt unsettled, cramped, incomplete when I went too many hours without. Wings were the outward expression of my power, the first enchantment that I could initiate on my own.
“Three?” That wasn’t right. “I commanded that a woman and a boy pass through the tower portal.”
“Indeed, my lord, they are a woman, a male child, and a man who claims to be their protector. Master Kasparian says that the man, like the child, carries a true being within him.”
Blaise. The name came instantly. One of the rekkonarre. A good man, but disobedient. I had no use for him here; he did not think my child belonged with me. “Take the woman and the boy to the quarters I’ve had prepared. Make them comfortable with food and dry clothing, and bring them to my father’s study an hour from now. The man may stay in the garden and freeze or return the way he came, as he chooses. He is forbidden to shapeshift here or to proceed beyond the garden. Have Kasparian see to it.”
Kasparian knew my orders. He was to prevent interference by my human acquaintances, but he was not to harm them. Once I could command my own power in this world, I would rethink the prison and its barriers and its occupants. And that time would come very soon. Only three days since my father had transferred his power to me, and already I could feel it swollen like a snow-fed torrent in spring.
For the moment, the binding spells I had created so long in the past left me unable to initiate any Madonai enchantment, save my own body’s shaping. I, too, was dependent on Kasparian. But, unlike my father, I could do very much as I pleased once the first spark was struck even by so dull an edge as my father’s attellé. Only crossing the wall was impossible. Any enchantment that my father could teach me, I could shape and wield once Kasparian had given it life, and I had confidence that I would control the wall itself once my strength had grown enough. I had plenty of time. I would be released from this confinement.
As for my father ... I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about him. He was still mad. Humans and rekkonarre had rightly feared him all these years. I understood his power, his deeds, and his reasoning—and the flaw that had torn him apart. He had done his best to cure me of that weakness, not so that I could carry out his slaughter as I had so foolishly feared, but to enable me to make reasoned judgments without going mad. Free of human sympathies and confusions, I would be able to sort out problems that only a Madonai had the power to address. Time would tell how well he had done.
I finished my stretching, watching the ice crystals form on the leading edges of my wings, pleased to note that even the sensitive membranes were not bothered by the cold. Just as I started down the tower stairs to my apartments, a loud screeching broke out beyond the battlements. Retracing my steps and peering over the wall, I saw a large brown-and-white bird struggling to fly toward the fortress from the direction of the garden. Its valiant efforts were doomed to failure. Besides the constant buffeting of the wind, the bird was caught by a rope of light tossed from Kasparian’s hand. The harder the bird fought, the tighter drew the noose about its neck.
“I told you that you are forbidden to approach the castle in any shape whatsoever,” shouted Kasparian above the bluster of wind and the indignant squawks of the
bird. With a few snaps of the rope, he had the bird back on the ground, where it quickly reshaped itself to a bedraggled man who knelt clutching his neck and gasping harshly.
I jumped up and onto the merlon. “Perhaps we need to illustrate the penalties for disobedience,” I called down to Kasparian as my wings filled and my cloak flapped and billowed. “Stake him out in the garden until tomorrow midnight.”
The man Blaise gawked stupidly as I stepped off the ramparts and spiraled downward on the storm wind to stand over him.
“I’ve no wish to harm you,” I said to the kneeling man, touching Kasparian’s hand and casting the spell that would prevent the captive rekkonarre from shapeshifting throughout the coming day. The man groaned a little as his bones felt the binding of my enchantment. “But I am not to be trifled with. You will tell your fellows when you return to your world.”
Blaise tried to speak, but Kasparian jerked on the rope and left him choking. I caught the air and soared upward. The man seemed very small as Kasparian dragged him away.
I returned to the tower stair and my own business, shaking off the damp while unshaping my wings. Once in my apartments, I donned gray breeches, boots, and a loose shirt of black silk, and I tied back my hair with a silk ribbon. A short time later I joined my father in his study.
“So your boy is come,” said my father, using one finger to move a piece on his game board. He had scarcely stirred from his chair by the fire since my change, claiming that the years weighed heavy on him now that his essence was so diminished. Not wishing to seem greedy or presumptuous, I had not pressed for a clearer estimate of his condition. An undeniable peace had soothed his edgy humor, though indeed the transfer of power seemed to have left him vulnerable to his declining body. But the threads he cast into the world and into my soul even now were no weakling wisps. Any who discounted my father from the game of power before he breathed his last would rue the miscalculation. “Does the child know you at all?” he asked.
“No more than I knew you when first I came here,” I said. “But that will change. By the time he is grown, he will remember nothing but his true home and family, unusual as we are.” I bowed slightly and smiled.
“You need to find some way to placate Kasparian,” he said, chuckling. “He threatens to step on the mite without remorse if the boy gets in his way.”
“I’ve already spoken with Kasparian. We’ve come to an understanding.” In exchange for his tolerance, I had promised the Madonai that he could stay with my father no matter how I chose to control Nyel in the future.
From the hallway sounded footsteps and a quiet whispering. A servant held the door, and through the opening we could see
the boy hanging back, clinging to the woman’s dark blue skirt. She stooped down to speak to the child for a moment, and then straightened, took him by the hand, and led him into the study. Neither showed any sign of fear as they crossed the room. I nodded my approval to the woman. The child gaped about the spacious room with its shining lamps and ornaments, his dark eyes growing wide at the sight of the black and white game pieces that glittered in the lamplight.
“May I present my son Evan-diargh?” I said, bowing first to my father and then to my son. “A proper introduction will have to wait until I know him better myself.” The child, paying no mind to either of us, pulled loose from the woman’s hand and wandered forward, stopping halfway between the woman’s position in the center of the room and the alluring game table. He eyed my father, judging, I supposed, whether to risk proximity to the stranger in order to gain access to the intriguing shapes so near the old man.
“Here, lad,” said Nyel, taking one of the small rounded warriors from the game board and rolling it across the carpet to the boy’s feet. The child snatched it from the floor, smiled shyly, and stepped a bit closer to the table.
“Evan,” said the woman softly, and the boy quickly retreated to her side, poking one finger in his mouth while clutching the ivory warrior.
“And this is Mistress Elinor,” I continued, “who has cared for my son since his birth.”
“One of the rekkonarre,” said my father. “But lacking her true being. Pity.”
“And who and what are you who presumes to pity my birth, sir?” said the woman. She spoke quite boldly for one whose hands were clenched into bloodless knots at her side.
“In this place I am called Nyel for lack of anything better,” said my father with a great sigh. “The names given to me in the human world, you know better than I. As for what I am, a tired old man is the most accurate description. One who has seen his fondest wish fulfilled and is deciding what lesser pleasures to enjoy for his waning days. You have clearly done good service in the nurture of this child, and so have no need to fear me or my son.” Nyel laid his hand on my arm.
“Your son ...” The woman glanced sharply from Nyel to me.
“The matter is too complicated to explain,” I said, clasping my hands behind my back. “And is none of your business. Are your quarters adequate?”
“For a prison,” she said, emboldened, no doubt, by my father’s gentle air. The more fool she, if she underestimated him.
“You are not confined to your rooms,” I said. “My son may roam where he pleases in the castle and grounds, excepting only the private apartments of my father and his companion, Kasparian. Kasparian also has a sparring arena just below this center part of the fortress. The arena is a dangerous place for a child. I have commanded Kasparian to keep it locked, but it is your responsibility to keep the boy away from it. You will accompany the child as is necessary to teach and care for him. You will find no dangers here beyond those of any house with stairs, towers, and windows—far fewer than where you were. Fewer than in any human dwelling of my experience.”
She would not be cowed. “Yet you cannot deny that we are confined.”
“You may leave Kir‘Navarrin at any time, Mistress.”
That silenced her impudence for the moment. She knew very well that she would leave alone.
The boy was tugging at the woman’s skirts, whispering, “Mam. Mam. Can we go home now?”
The woman laid a hand on his head, quieting him. “I beg you excuse us, good sir, but I should put Evan to bed. We’ve traveled a long way. If you will accompany us, Seyonne, I’ll show you how he likes to be put to bed. If you’re to care for him in the future, you’d best learn.”
My father chortled in delight and rocked back in his chair. “Indeed, my son, I believe you’ve brought a determined spirit into this house. And I thought the child would be the most interesting visitor we’ve seen in a millennium.” He waved his hand at the three of us. “Go on. Go on. Indeed, lad, you should learn what she has to teach. When she sickens or dies or decides that her loyalties are to her own kind instead of this boy, we’ll not wish the child’s habits disrupted.”
Irritated by the woman’s presumption and my father’s encouragement of it, I bowed curtly to my father and gestured the woman toward the door.
The woman murmured quietly to the child as we climbed the curved stair, pointing out the bird-shaped carvings on the staircase, telling him not to scrape the game piece on the polished wood, and dragging him away from the fountain on the landing before he tumbled into it. Her words and actions were directed to the boy, but her eyes kept flicking to me until I was tempted to see if some unsightly growth had appeared on my forehead. When she hesitated at the convergence of four corridors, I indicated the way, and we soon arrived at my son’s apartments.
The main room was large and would command a fine view of the gardens. Shelves lined one wall, filled with toy ships and balls, books and paper, and sticks of coal to draw with. Under the wide casements stood a clothes chest stocked with new shirts, breeches, undergarments, and boots of the proper size. A conjured servant was just laying out a supper of cold meat, apples, and toasted bread on a small, low table. While I stood in the doorway watching, Mistress Elinor sat on the rug beside the bedroom fire and helped the boy change into a well-worn n
ightshirt pulled from a traveling bundle. I considered leaving. I had no interest in bedroom rituals; servants could learn such things and carry them out when the nursemaid was dead or gone. Yet I stayed, listening and watching.
“... But this is your new house ...” said the woman, when the child popped up from her lap and tried with pokes and shoves to stand her up, demanding to go home. “... and it is a very nice house with many new things to see. Here, have some supper. You’ve not eaten in ever so long.” She pulled the boy onto her lap, coaxing him to try a bite of cold fowl. He shook his head, but accepted a square of toast, watching the servant make up the small bed that stood against one wall.
The bed prepared, the plain-faced serving woman picked up several cloth-wrapped bundles that lay by the outer door and pointed to a smaller doorway off to one side. “I’ll put your things in your room,” she said to Elinor.
“Leave them, please. I’ll be staying in here.”
“Your room is next to this. Not so large, but sufficient.” The servant was of Kasparian’s creation and bidding, and so, of course, quite expressionless and unintelligent.
“As I said, I’ll be sleeping in here with my son.”
“But you’ve no bed here for sleeping, and I’ll not be moving any furniture without I’m told by Master Kasparian.”
The human woman shrugged and shifted her attention back to the child, picking up the dropped toast. Clearly the argument was concluded, though the simpleminded servant who disappeared through the door with the traveling bags did not understand who had won.
I admired strength in a woman, though I knew better than to trust the one who possessed it. As I crossed the room to join the woman and boy by the fire, my hand rubbed the nagging reminder on my side. This woman must be taught to bend; she claimed my child as her own.
“Hello, Evan. May I join your supper?” I said, bowing to him slightly.
