Crowchanger (Changers of Chandris) (18 page)

At this news, Sylas admitted he was glad he had stayed with Ayriene. She was pleased to hear it. She understood his anger and frustration, obviously, but rebellion was not the path he should take.

On the evening they left Adamantara, they sat together by the fire. The wagoner saw to his horse and sat a little apart. He had made little conversation on the journey. Many people were uncomfortable around changers, and he preferred his own company.

The only dry kindling Sylas found nearby was squealwood, and the fire let out eerie wails that set shivers running down Ayriene’s back. Sylas had told her once before, sitting by a squealwood fire, that the Chesammos told their children stories of a lost spirit. One of the kye had crossed from the Outlands and could not find its way back, becoming trapped in the thorns of the squealwood bush, and the noise made when the wood burned was the kye shrieking in agony. Sylas had proved a surprisingly good storyteller; she had hardly slept that night, thinking of the tortured spirit. Now, sitting at the fire hearing the shrieks, she felt as if she turned her head sharply she would see it out of the corner of her eye.

“Tell me another story,” she said. “Not the squealwood one. Another one. A story your mother told you.”

He thought a moment. “I don’t know which one to tell.”

“Is there one about the Lady? She’s obviously important to you.”

“She made us. The Chesammos. The Irenthi. The Irmos, I suppose, since they are a mix of the two. Although I’m not sure if they would count as one of her peoples.”

Ayriene drew her blanket closer about her shoulders, ignoring the questionable status of her Irmos people. “You believe she made the Irenthi? Even though they came to the island only a few hundred years ago?”

“They left, and came back. They were her first people.”

He felt awkward talking about his beliefs, she could see, and tried to steer him away from them. “What about that oath you use? ‘Omena’s wings.’ Is there a story behind that?”

“Omena Stormweaver saved the island. She was a Chesammos changer. The Lady grew angry—she does sometimes, making the ground shake and the mountain spit fire.”

She nodded. “You’re too young to remember the last time that happened. It was soon after Deygan became king. The Lorandans threatened to invade. They managed to land a couple of troop ships north of Adamantara. There were earthquakes then—smoke and dust from the mountain. It looked like we were in for a full-scale eruption.” Ayriene hesitated. She had never understood what happened next. “It just stopped. We’ve not had any trouble since.”

“When it happened that first time, Omena sang to the Lady. She heard the Lady’s song, the one she makes with the aiea, and she sang it back to her to make her be at peace. My mother tells the story well. You should have asked her to tell it when we were in Namopaia.”

Ayriene sat up, staring at him. “Wait. You believe the aiea comes from the mountain?”

“Where else would it come from? It is only on the island, you said. Once you are out of sight of the land, you can no longer feel the aiea, no?”

“No, but it comes from the island. That’s what I’ve always been told. Why would it come from the mountain?”

Sylas smiled. “Because we came from the Lady—all of us. Maybe you need to believe that to believe the aiea comes from her.”

Ayriene pondered on what he said and a dozen questions bloomed in her mind, but she did not want to get into a debate on Chesammos religion, if a religion it was. Not with the two of them so tired with travelling, and the wagoner a few paces away. She reached for her pouch, drawing out a tiny linen-wrapped package.

“I almost forgot. I bought something in Adamantara.” She felt strangely awkward holding it out to him. “Take it. It’s for you.”

Nearly losing Sylas in Namopaia had made her realise how attached to him she had become. In any Chesammos village they visited, one thing set him apart from the other men, and she had contributed to it, albeit inadvertently. She would take the opportunity to make amends.

“A present?” He untied the thread and the cloth fell open to show a tiny linandra bead on a thin metal wire.

“I know you don’t have the hole since I healed your ear, but I have a tokai needle. Piercing it would be an easy enough job.”

He tried to pass it back to her, the bead still resting on the linen. “I can’t take this.”

“It didn’t cost that much. I only got a small one, and if you look carefully there’s a flaw in the stone, but I thought… I thought that would be best.”

She knew by now that Chesammos pride could be prickly, so she had chosen a small stone of low quality, guessing that the one he had been given at his ceremony would have been similar. She had not wanted to cause him shame. Except, from the look on his face, she had. She had thought she would make him happy with her gift, but it seemed she had missed the mark.

“I can’t, Mistress. Don’t ask it of me.”

The boy sounded wretched. Did he think she would order him to do something that was clearly causing him distress? She poked the fire and the wood shrieked, the eerie wail appropriate to his mood.

“When we’ve been around Chesammos you’ve been the only man without one. I’ve seen people noticing, so I’m sure you have as well. I thought maybe it was time you had yours back.”

“The linandra can only be given by a Chesammos, Mistress—a man’s father, or an uncle if the father is dead. Or the village elder if the man has no living male relative of sufficient standing. It would not be proper for you to do it.”

She could feel her cheeks reddening. Of course, she should have guessed there would be rules and rituals to be obeyed. The Chesammos did so love their rituals.

“I have embarrassed you. I’m sorry. That was not my intention.” And now she was embarrassed, too. She had offended him when she had simply wanted to give him a gift.

“I know it wasn’t. It was a kind gesture, but I would not pretend to have been given an honour that I have not. My father took the bead from me and will never give it back. His brothers would not go against his wishes. I don’t know who the elder is now that Skarai is dead, but I doubt he would either.” He rewrapped the bead and wire in the linen and tied the thread, frowning when his bow was not as neat as the original.

“I know nothing of my mother’s family, but even if there was a suitable man among them I would not go begging a stranger to give me the bead. Maybe you can get your money back.”

“Keep it. Maybe an opportunity will arise when a Chesammos of suitable status can confer the honour on you. Maybe Master Jesely? We’ll be at the Aerie in a couple of days; he could do it for you. Or Master Cowin.” He had asked after Cowin, she remembered—asked her mother if she knew him.

“With respect, Mistress, Master Jesely was born and raised in the Aerie. I could not ask him to perform a traditional Chesammos rite. Master Cowin I scarcely know.” He seemed nervous when he mentioned Cowin. She wondered if he knew something she did not. Had the boy worked out that his mother had been at the Aerie, many years before? Ayriene should have been surprised to see her in Namopaia, but she had guessed something strange was afoot when Donmar had her heal Shamella and then word of Shamella’s death had come so soon after.

She curled his fingers round the package. “Keep it for now. There may come a time when you can wear it honourably. And if not, it may pay for a bite to eat or a roof over your head if you are in need.” Ayriene held his gaze, leaving her hand around his until he nodded minutely and tucked the bead into his pouch.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he said.

Chapter 18

“S
it down, Casian.”

Casian eyed Garvan edgily. He had rehearsed his opening speech on the way to Lucranne, and he launched into it, rather than play around with social niceties.

“I gave it three months, like you said. I spent time with Prince Jaevan, and now the king won’t be back till next year, so I’d be better off in Banunis trying to consolidate the relationship. Master Jesely still has no interest in me. I don’t think he wants to help an Irenthi, and even with Sylas placed with Ayriene, he mostly ignores me.”

“Sylas? That’s the Chesammos you were friends with?”

Casian could feel his cheeks heat. Though they had reconciled before Sylas left, it still smarted that he had taken off with Ayriene rather than going along with Casian’s scheme. The damn Chesammos wasn’t meant to think for himself; that hadn’t been part of the plan. Casian missed him. The Creator only knew how much.

“Our paths cross from time to time,” he said, wincing at the note of defensiveness he heard in his voice.

“I know things are different at the Aerie,” Garvan said, pouring wine into tall silver goblets and pushing one across the table to Casian. The nobleman drank, holding the vessel in long slender fingers. “I’d prefer if he were not Chesammos, but Master Jesely explained that all are equal in the changers’ eyes. All the same, we have to talk about his status.”

“Status?”

“Clearly you cannot marry as long as you have him. No self-respecting Irenthi woman will marry a man with an acknowledged Chesammos lover. So the title will pass to your brother after you, we must assume. Or his children, if you outlive him. It would be tidier if it were all settled well in advance of that, of course. So I will have the documents drawn up to make it official that you are standing down as heir. Then your way will be clear to acknowledge this Sylas as your partner.” Garvan juggled Sylas’s name on his tongue like a hot coal. It sounded as if it pained him to say his name.

“Standing down? I have no intention of standing down.” So his father was still plucking at that harp, was he? Garvan had clearly made enquiries about him at the Aerie and decided that Sylas was his key bargaining point. Casian loved Sylas, but he would not set his title aside for him. He wondered what Jesely had said to give his father that impression.

Garvan frowned. “Then he will have no more status than a common whore. Chesammos may be lowly, but they can be touchy, you will find. Sometimes the most base are the most sensitive about their honour.”

It had not even occurred to Casian that he acknowledge Sylas, or that his father would take the prospect of him having a male lover—a male Chesammos lover—with such equanimity. In fact, he would have bet a hefty sum that his father would have laid about him with the flat of his sword if he had suspected such a thing, foaming at the mouth about the honour of Lucranne. Garvan seemed to be refusing to meet his gaze. Casian swallowed several gulps of wine and wondered what he was missing.

“I… think you have misunderstood the nature of the relationship, Father,” he ventured at last.

“He is not your bedmate then?” Garvan’s ice-blue eyes narrowed. “I was led to believe it was common knowledge.” He too raised his goblet, taking careful sips and licking his lips. “A pity. My informant seemed to think you were well suited.”

Talking to his father sometimes reminded Casian of a particularly intense game of towers. As fast as Casian built one tower, Garvan laid waste to another and set siege on a second. He had rarely beaten his father at any game of strategy. Garvan was as determined as ever that Casian should abdicate, then. Casian poured himself another cup of wine, but cradled it in his hands, taking occasional sips and rolling the taste around his mouth. If his father were playing politics with him he would need a clear head. This was one game Casian intended to win—or at least not lose.

“Is something the matter, Father?” Casian asked. “You seem to have a lot on your mind.”

Garvan swirled his wine, then tipped the remainder down his throat and pushed the goblet away. His face hardened and he locked eyes with Casian, forcing him to maintain the contact.

“No more dancing around, then. You will stand down as my heir, Casian. You will abdicate your position and Yoran will succeed me.”

If Casian had not known better he would have thought his father possessed of the compulsion talent, but this was simply the sheer force of Garvan’s not-inconsiderable will. He blinked, trying to regain possession of his wits, and spoke carefully, determined not to falter.

“Didn’t you hear me say I was leaving the Aerie? That’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? You’ve trained
me
to inherit Lucranne, not Yoran.”

Not entirely true, and they both knew it. Certainly Casian had the training in his early years, but there was probably less difference now between him and Yoran than Casian liked to think. His brother was a capable man, more than able to make a good lord holder. But why?

“I have known since your birth,” said Garvan. “I chose not to make it public, for various reasons.”

Casian felt the game pieces shifting around him. His tower was in danger again, but he lacked the subtlety to understand his father’s move.

“Known what?” Casian’s mouth was dry, and he gulped a mouthful of wine. Although a fine vintage, as always at his father’s table, it tasted like vinegar.

“Your mother came to me on our wedding day pregnant, Casian. She claimed you were born too early, but anyone could see you had gone the full time. And your eyes, Casian. When your eyes turned green that left me in no doubt.”

“But you told me—” Casian stopped, swallowed hard. “You said my grandfather had green eyes. Mother’s father, who died when she was a baby. You told me that was where they came from.”

“And I made sure that everyone heard that your maternal grandfather had green eyes, so anyone who queried it got the same story. Your mother’s father did one great thing. He died so long ago no one can remember
what
colour his eyes were. I loved your mother, then as now. I wanted no shame cast on her.”

“So why did you name me your heir if you knew me to be a bastard?”

“Our laws do not allow us to remove a son from the line of succession, to prevent fathers passing over less promising boys, or boys who resist moulding by their fathers in favour of a better candidate or one who will more closely adopt his father’s ideas. I declared you my heir when I acknowledged you as my son, and I acknowledged you as my son to spare your mother. I must stand by that decision.”

“So denounce me now. Save yourself the trouble of an abdication.”

“If I did it would cast doubt on Yoran’s parentage, and still bring shame on your mother. I still love her. I would see no man speaking badly of her for a mistake made many years ago.”

“So you hoped that I would stay at the Aerie, stand down of my own accord, and neatly solve your problem for you? And now I’m back, and the problem remains.” Casian was surprised how calm he felt. At least it made more sense now. His father’s preference for Yoran. His mother compensating for his father’s distance. But never a word said to him or his brother of why.

“And if I refuse to stand aside? What then?” He knew the answer before it came.

“I have come to think of you as my own, but even lord holder’s sons have accidents. Do not put me in that position. It would break your mother’s heart to lose you.”

Casian set the cup down deliberately, forcing his hand to remain steady in case the rattle of cup against table should betray its shaking. He shook with rage, not fear, but his father might not see the difference. He rose, taking his leave with as much composure as he could muster.

“Don’t take too long reaching your decision,” Garvan said. “If you are to return to the Aerie I will need to take action quickly. Your decision to leave has doubtless angered many people.”

Casian nodded curtly. He had not endeared himself to the council when he left. Harsh words had been spoken. Most he had believed true at the time, but many he would retract now, given the chance.

“Who was he?”

Garvan shook his head. “I have my suspicions, but I will not name a man without proof, and I never asked. I tried to deny it to myself for so many years the time to ask her passed, and she never told me, although from things she has said she knows I know the truth. If you want to know, I suggest you ask your mother.”

Which Casian would hesitate to do, for the same reasons as Garvan. It would risk hurting his mother, and she was the only constant he had left. Ambitious he might be, but Casian was not totally without a heart. So, he had no mastery, no place on the changer council to look forward to, and now no inheritance. Casian did the only thing he could think to do in the circumstances. He flew to see his mother.

Casian’s mother was not surprised when he knocked, asking to speak with her. Her servants would have told her of his arrival, and Boreana, lady of Lucranne, was as imperturbable as her husband.

Boreana and Garvan were a good match, as arranged marriages went. It might have been several years since Boreana moved her household from the city of Lucranne to a manor on the edge of the desert, but that was no reflection on their relationship. She wilted in the desert, like a flower deprived of water. She needed trees and plants around her, and the smell of fresh, clean air. Lucranne sapped her spirit with its miles of ash and tainted air. Had it not been for the linandra stones, no great house would have built its seat out there in the desert. Lucranne might not be the most hospitable city on Chandris, but it was undeniably the wealthiest.

Casian had flown by day, ignoring the discomfort of his naturally night-flying owl. His father’s news had upset him more than he wanted to admit. He was not the rightful heir of Lucranne. His entire life had been built upon a lie, and both his parents had gone along with the deception. Where he had been confident and brash, now he was battered and bruised. He needed to talk to his mother, needed reassurance that he could still be who he had dreamed. That he was not destined to be an unknown man’s bastard son.

As he flew, he mulled over his options. He could refuse to stand down, as he had threatened, but his father would never let another man’s blood inherit Lucranne. If he persisted with that route he would have an unfortunate accident, or succumb to a particularly virulent fever, or meet one of any number of convenient deaths by which Irenthi lords saw off their rivals. Should Casian try to preempt him—by ensuring his father’s role would be discovered in the event of his death, say—this would not save him. Indeed, it would likely make Garvan see him disposed of sooner rather than later. It would embarrass and degrade his mother, and threaten Yoran’s position. His brother—half-brother, he reminded himself—was an annoying prig at times, but Casian could not find it in him to want the whole Lucranne dynasty brought down.

She had guessed the purpose of his visit. He saw it in her face as soon as he entered the room. They sat opposite each other in her chambers, and she regarded him, lips drawn tightly together, before she spoke.

“You know.” It was part question, part statement.

He nodded.

“He told you, or you guessed?”

“He told me. I wanted to leave the Aerie. He told me if I did, it left him with an heir too many. He set out my options.”

She jerked her head to one side in the gesture that served her in place of a shrug. “And I suppose you want to know the details?”

He stared into her face, seeing for the first time fine lines around her eyes, like cracks in ice. The first signs of age—or were they caused by pain and secrets? Maybe it came to the same thing.

“Not especially.”

Her head twitched upward, the suggestion of surprise in her features.

“Just tell me, was he true-blood?”

“I might have known that would be your main concern.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice. “Your father was pure-blood, Casian. I was young and he was persuasive. You’ve inherited that part of him. I’ve seen you sweet-talk people into things they had no intention of doing, many times.”

Talents often amplified traits present before the person became a changer, he knew. No one was surprised that Miralee was a seer. She had been unusually insightful, even as a child. The changers had debated for years whether that meant a talent was fixed from childhood, maybe from birth, or whether it built on an existing characteristic. Casian wasn’t sure whether he liked having inherited his ability from his unknown father. It was useful, certainly, but for Boreana to see his father in him—it made him uncomfortable.

“Was the changing from my father, too?”

“As far as I know there is no changing in your father’s family.”

Would she tell him if he asked, he wondered. He could compel her. He had never had cause to try to compel his mother, and the idea made him uneasy. A part of him wanted to know—he would be a liar if he claimed otherwise—but he had to maintain the pretence of being Garvan’s son. It might be simpler if he didn’t know, given the risk of encountering his real father someday. As it was, he would be looking at any Irenthi of his mother’s age and older, and wondering.