Restoration

by Carol Berg

  From that first night of my awakening, Elinor seemed to understand what I needed, shushing Blaise and Aleksander every time they began to question me and insisting that they allow me some breathing time. “Come back in seven days,” she said. “I’ll have him ready to go home.”

  After much argument to which I was not privy, the two men returned to their war and Elinor went about her own business. In the next days she spoke to me only of mundane things: Was I comfortable, was I hungry, did I wish her to continue exercising my arm as she had done when I was insensible? She had seen such weakness mended, but only if the limb was not allowed to wither. Now that I was awake, she said, I could move everything else myself.

  Somewhere I found the words to say that I would appreciate her help very much. “I’ve not been truly asleep,” I said, unable to look beyond her scuffed boots. “I know all you’ve done for me—”

  She would not let me continue. Rather she straightened my blankets and went off to call the servants to bring supper, dismissing my verbal fumbling. “Time enough for such talk later.” And so, other than feeding me, exercising my arm several times a day, and providing me the means to wash and relieve myself, she left me very much alone with my thoughts. I needed that, but I looked forward to the hour of our exercise. I had grown accustomed to her touch.

  Evan, whether warned by Elinor or following his own intuition, played quietly with his ships on the floor at my feet, making noises of ocean, birds, and sailing men. I never tired of watching him.

  I spent a great deal of time in a chair by the window, looking out on the snow-covered garden and the ring of black surrounding it, not thinking so much as gathering thoughts for future consideration, letting the events of the past months and years ebb and flow around me. Outside of this room, this small island of vibrant life that Elinor and Evan made for me, the fortress was silent and empty. I could grieve for Kerouan now, and for the universe, which had lost such beauty and grace and power as he had once been. On one winter afternoon, a great slab of the wall gave way and collapsed into the snow. So the Twelve, too, knew their long vigil was ended. I wept on that day. Though unable to articulate the sorrows that welled from me, I would not suppress or discount them. They were mine as surely as was my grief for Ysanne and Farrol and all the others.

  By the day Aleksander and Blaise returned, I could stand up without immediately toppling over and even take a few shuffling steps when supported. “You’re not going to carry me,” I said, fumbling with the fastening on my cloak, wishing they would look away and not see how awkward I was left-handed. “I will walk out of this place on my own feet.”

  “And if we should find you in a heap on the path, will we be allowed to scrape you up?” said Aleksander, slipping his shoulder under my dead arm just as my weak right leg wobbled, threatening to give way.

  Blaise hefted one of Elinor’s green cloth bags and scooped up Evan, who had managed to escape Elinor’s hand and climb onto a table. Elinor took the other bag and led us out of the room and down the stairs, past the two expressionless servants who had brought us food, drink, and whatever was needed for more than two months. When I looked back over my shoulder, the man and woman were fading out like morning haze.

  Aleksander was all for heading straight out the front door, but I shook my head. “He saved my life and has seen to our care. I can’t leave without a word.”

  The Prince waited at the door while I stepped into the sitting room, supporting myself with a table edge. As Elinor had said, Kasparian sat at the game table by the hearth fire, his elbows propped on the table beside the gleaming black and white game pieces, his head resting on his hands. His long brown hair, threaded with gray, hid his face, while the carved figures supporting the mantel gazed down at the room in solemn unconcern.

  “I’ll not thank you for my life,” I said, concentrating to find the words I wanted and get them out in a reasonable time span. “I don’t deceive myself that you did any of this for me.”

  He did not acknowledge my presence. I didn’t expect it.

  “I do thank you for sustaining my child and his mother. That was driven by your own goodness of heart, not by your love of Kerouan. Even so, I know you would rather not hear anything from my lips.” No disagreement from the still figure. “But I wanted to ask you one more boon. Someday, when I can get about again, and I’ve had time to think about what’s happened, I’d like to come back here and speak with you. I was foolish and destroyed the memories of this life—Valdis’s life—my life. I want to remember. As I promised my father. May I come?”

  After a long stillness, he spoke, still not looking at me. “You’ve naught left, do you? Not a scrap.”

  Glancing behind me to see no one listening, I answered. “No.”

  “You’ll go mad with what you’ve done.”

  “Perhaps. But at least I won’t be dangerous. May I come?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  I turned my back on the last of the Madonai and hobbled to the front door, where Aleksander waited in a beam of winter sunlight. “Are you all right, Seyonne?” he said.

  Blaise, Evan, and Elinor were already halfway to the wall. I nodded toward the black barrier. “As soon as I’m past that, I’ll be fine.”

  They took me to one of Blaise’s hidden settlements in the thick forests of the Kuvai hills, an encampment of some fifty war refugees, none of whom knew me. I shared a ramshackle cottage with a deaf-mute named Kesa, and I learned how to speak with gestures. As I could use only one hand, it was good he was not talkative. I felt as though a castle tower had fallen on me, scattering the bits and pieces of mind and body across the world’s landscape. Every human engagement was a journey to find the proper pieces and fit them together again.

  Fiona came to visit me in Kuvai as soon as she got word of my return. She wore the gold Queen’s Circlet that I had last seen on Ysanne’s brow, though she snatched it off as soon as the cottage door closed behind her, leaving the two of us alone.

  “Put it back,” I said. “It fits you well.”

  “Gaudy thing,” she said, twirling it in her fingers. “You don’t mind?”

  I did not speak, but only shook my head, not wishing my voice to betray some lingering sentiment that might put the lie to my true belief. Fiona would be a worthy queen.

  Sitting beside me on my bed, she told me how they had recovered Drych and Hueil and poor lifeless Olwydd from Kir‘-Vagonoth, of her acceptance of Aleksander’s offer to sit in judgment of Edik and the Derzhi, and of her belief that it was time for Ezzarians to reveal ourselves and the history of our demon war to the world—a monumental step and irreversible. “I think you’ve infected me with your disease,” she said. “Here I am, risking everything I know, just because I think it right. A number of our countrymen and women think I’m mad to do it.”

  I kissed her hand and told her that Ezzaria was blessed to have her. Our old charge was not done-the mad Gastai still took souls-but Drych and Hueil had come back with ideas of joining forces with Vallyne to control the demons in Kir‘Vagonoth, making our demon battles a thing of the past. Ezzaria would need to change.

  Fiona did not stay long on that visit. I still tired easily and was not yet ready or able to explain all that had happened to me. But before she left, I asked her to examine me, to look deep with a sorcerer’s seeing so that all might know—and so that I might be reassured—that naught was hidden. Though hating to intrude on me in that way, she did not hesitate. She knew her duty. When she was done, she embraced me fiercely. “Welcome back, my friend,” she said. “Your demon is still a part of you and will ever be, but your soul is entirely your own.” For the first night in more than two years, I slept easy.

  Elinor took up residence in a nearby cottage, and Evan spent most of every day running back and forth between us, hiding, climbing, teasing, an everlasting exasperation and delight. As I grew stronger, Elinor and I spent a large part of every day together, making shoes and clothes for him and nursing him through scrapes and scratch
es. Our relationship was awkward. I tried to let Elinor know that she need not feel obliged to spend further time in my company. If she was worried about leaving me alone with Evan, I would accept whomever she might select to be with us. She dismissed my offer, saying that she preferred to see to things herself. And then she added that, as long as we were spending time together, she might as well continue to exercise my arm. Over the winter months, the prickling in my fingers spread to the whole limb, and I began to hope that I might regain its use.

  In truth I had no greater pleasure than watching Evan and Elinor together. Indeed, I took equal pleasure watching the mother as the child. Elinor’s countenance was a subtle canvas, a background of intelligence, illuminated by patience and compassion, touched lightly by her moods and humors. The left corner of her mouth twisted upward at a childish folly. Her brow dipped and her eye widened slightly when listening to a small boy’s tale of wonder. Her red-gold coloring deepened just a bit when she chased him laughing through the Kuvai woodland.

  At first I held back, content to watch them, scarcely even speaking, save in answer to a direct question. My speech was halting and awkward, and I would often come across dead spots in my memory, causing me to stop in mid-sentence while I groped for a word or idea. Elinor noticed this, of course, and after a few weeks, she quietly insisted on a new exercise. “I think you should hold an hour’s conversation with me every day. How will you ever be able to teach Evan the things he needs to learn from you, if you can’t get out five words in an hour?”

  We met every afternoon while Evan slept. She would work my arm, and we would talk of ordinary things. Of food and weather. Of people in the village. Of the war. Of Evan’s needs and behavior. Occasionally of our own childhoods. Safe ground. By midwinter I was so much improved, she had me teaching Evan the lore of trees and forest, saying that he should learn from me those things that were of such importance to Ezzarians. Even then we did not give up our hour. Though I wondered where words might take us if our conversations were ever to wander farther afield, I held to the familiar and mundane, refusing to risk her discomfort or displeasure. The imagining was pleasant, though. Very pleasant.

  Beyond this, I ate and slept and walked when I was strong enough, and ran when I was stronger yet. As soon as I could manage, I helped the villagers haul wood and water and clean the meager kill their hunters brought in, and I listened to their music and their god stories as they sat by the fire on the long winter nights. I shared their hunger for news of the Aveddi and rejoiced with them at the tales of his safety, his valor, and the victories he won. The vicious heart had gone out of Edik and his henchmen, so the fireside gossip said, the turning point having come soon after the victory at Parassa. The despicable Emperor was holed up in Zhagad. It was only a matter of time until the war was won. Even the gods saw victory at hand, so an old woman told me, for they no longer felt it necessary to send their winged spirit to aid the Aveddi Aleksander.

  Aleksander came to me as often as he could throughout that winter and spring. Blaise would bring him whenever events allowed the time. While Blaise visited with Elinor and Evan and his other friends in the settlement, Aleksander would lean back on the rough walls of my house, drink wine, and ask advice or talk about his plans and strategies, his commanders and troops. Once or twice, he fell asleep. On one spring midnight, as he applied ground yellowroot to his feet that were tormented by boot-rot, he spoke of his uncertainty as to his place in the world once the war was won. With the lands of the Empire returned to their rightful owners, he believed his day as a ruler was over and that his best hope to escape vengeance would be to seek the protection of one of the old kings. “I’ve thought to offer service to Yulai,” he said. “D‘Skaya has said she would have my arm in Thrid, but the jungles would grow mold on me, I think. Look what a wet spring in the northern marches has done to my feet! Manganar has deserts and will likely occupy a good share of Azhakstan after the war. And Manganar warriors ride horses, while the Thrid fight afoot. My legs don’t like marching.”

  “Your destiny still awaits,” I said, smiling as I passed him another packet of the powdered roots. “You’ll find your way. I have faith in you. More than ever.”

  He knew exactly what I meant by this, and as ever when he thought of our duel, he grew somber and tried to ask forgiveness. I did my best to reassure him. He had kept faith as I had counted on him to do. In the end he had not needed to kill me as I had intended, but if things had fallen out differently, the world would have been glad of his service.

  As to any further explanations, he knew better than to press. Always he would ask how my healing progressed, and I would say, “Improving.” He would look at me and judge, and then make some pointed comment: “You need to drink more nazrheel,” or “A woman in your bed would be the best exercise for your arm,” or “I’ll expect a footrace to that oak and back on my next visit, and this time I’ll trounce your sorry bones.” We would laugh, and he would go, promising to come again when the war permitted. The light still shone in him, brighter than ever.

  CHAPTER 45

  On the day of the spring equinox, the Aveddi of Azhakstan, the firstborn of the desert, rode down the Emperor’s Road toward Zhagad. A white cloak billowed from his shoulders, and his red braid was wound with wooden beads. He wore no adornment that might signify rank, and indeed, he claimed no rank, not even on this, the day of his triumph. On his flanks rode Yulai and Magda, the King and Queen of the Manganar, and their son Terlach; Marouf, the Palatine of Suzai, and his five sons; and W‘Osti, the Thrid chieftain and his war leader D’Skaya. On the Aveddi’s immediate left rode his cousin Kiril zha Ramiell, leading the first lords of more than fifty Derzhi families, along with the Yvor Lukash, his face painted black with white daggers, and a tall woman, her face painted likewise. On the Aveddi’s right rode his wife, Lydia, carrying their infant son on her back as the women of the desert have done since ancient days. The child was yet unnamed, for his father was at war, and Derzhi custom forbade naming a child in wartime, lest the child be marked with death.

  And, yes, just behind the Aveddi rode a man in a gray cloak, a slender man that few could name, his black hair showing signs of gray. Though he wore no weapon and seemed quite ordinary, many of the Aveddi’s company watched him warily. I had asked to observe the day’s events from the gate tower, pleading lingering illness, but Aleksander would not hear of it, saying that any man who was running three leagues through the Kuvai hills every morning could not claim weakness. He wanted me with him.

  Behind this noble vanguard rode five thousand men and women from every corner of the land. Uncounted thousands more stood along the roadside, hung over the city walls or out of windows, or lined the streets within the royal city. No musicians or jugglers or dancers were performing. No hawkers or vendors plied their trades with paltry tokens of celebration. This day was solemn ... a day of judgment and witness.

  Awaiting the Aveddi on a hurriedly built dais at the gates of Zhagad stood a small figure dressed in a green gown, a circlet of gold banding her forehead and her short dark hair. I smiled as I noted her almost imperceptible fidgeting. Fiona had worn men’s clothing for most of her life; she hated skirts. On either side of her stood a man dressed in a dark blue cloak trimmed in silver, each carrying a silver knife sheathed at his side-the two young Wardens, Drych and Huiel.

  As the Aveddi’s party approached the gates, Fiona stepped forward and raised her arms. Slowly, from the sand to either side of her, rose twin white poles, and from them banners unfurled, white, sewn with the likeness of a dark green tree, a silver dagger, and a small oval mirror—the Queen’s banner of Ezzaria, which had never flown in view of the world outside our borders. Tears pricked my eyes.

  “Greetings to this noble assembly from the Queen and the Mentors’ Council of Ezzaria.” Her voice could be heard by every man and woman present—striking even deeper awe into the onlookers. “What seek you at the gates of Zhagad?”

  “Tidings of justice, gracious Queen,” sp
oke Aleksander, “and our lands’ peace.”

  “Then hear me, honored petitioners,” said Fiona. “The tyrant Edik, whom we have judged guilty of crimes too numerous and too terrible to speak on this fair day, is dead by our device, as are the First Lords of Hamrasch, Rhyzka, Nyabozzi, and Gorusch, who have carried out the tyrant’s wickedness upon the people of your lands. Seven and forty lower-ranking commanders and nobles we have judged to have deliberately and murderously executed the tyrant’s will, and upon these accused we have placed a bane of sorcery. They have been sent forth upon the roads of this land impoverished, forbidden to have contact with their kinsmen, forbidden to settle in any place for more than a day, their magical bonds preventing all speech and hearing until the day they are adjudged repentant for their deeds or they are dead. Those who wish to see them punished should refrain from a moment’s pleasurable vengeance. Rather watch them live and learn of what they’ve done. As you have recommended, Aveddi, the remaining nobles and common soldiers who have participated in these crimes have been dispersed and given our parole, enjoined to seek the forgiveness of their countrymen by word and deed, lest they too be subject to our penalties. We have marked their names and will be watching.”