Echoes of Betrayal (68 page)

Before Arian could ask, Dorrin explained her perspective on the situation with Beclan. “I’m sure you noticed how awkward it was, but in the end, it’s for the best,” she finished.

Arian nodded. “I did not think it fair, but if you do—that’s what matters.”

Dorrin stretched her long legs to the spring sun. “Arian, has your taig-sense helped you discover what poison they used?”

Arian said, “No. Nor Kieri’s, either. We don’t know if it’s because the poison is in us still, though I can still feel the taig at large. Nor have the elves been able to tell us anything.”

“From what Kieri said, he does not entirely trust the elves.”

“That’s so. But you have magery—can you tell?”

“May I touch you?”

Arian stared, then realized that she had not seen Dorrin touch anyone without permission other than shaking hands with Kieri, a warrior’s gesture. “Yes,” she said, and held out her hands. Dorrin took them; Arian could feel nothing unusual. Then Dorrin opened her own hands and sighed.

“I have been able to heal some things,” Dorrin said. “But I felt something in my hands when I did. I felt nothing this time except a kind of heaviness. If the elves can’t help you, have you considered a Kuakgan?”

“A Kuakgan! Elves don’t—we don’t have them here.”

“I would have thought, with the taig—Paks asked a Kuakgan to raise the taig for her—”

“Elves say they’re bad. You know about the old quarrel, the Severance.”

“Yes. The elves’ side of it, which I think does them no credit. Why should it keep you from seeking help wherever it might be?”

“Kieri did tell me that when the war started and the elves did not come to aid, he thought of calling in a Kuakgan.”

“Did he?”

“No—I think he would have, but the dragon took me to free the elves from underground.”

Dorrin’s brows rose. “There’s a story I want to hear someday. But for now—what about a Kuakgan? They know the plant world—wouldn’t this likely be a plant poison? Mushrooms or something like that?”

“I don’t know any Kuakkgani. They do pass through sometimes, but—”

“You do know that back before Midwinter, one healed my youngest squire, Daryan?”

“Yes, Kieri told me.”

“I met him, worked with him a little, and I have also met one with
a settled Grove, Master Oakhallow. I could send word to him—but as they are sensitive to the taig, perhaps we could use that—”

“We should be able to,” Arian said. “Has Kieri met either of them?”

“Oakhallow, yes—last year, when he was coming to Lyonya, but very briefly,” Dorrin said. “You and I might do better than Kieri would. Let me have your hand again. You are better at contacting the taig than I am, but I think I can find the Kuakkgani more easily.”

Arian reached out to the taig, pushing her awareness westward; she felt Dorrin within that contact as a bright thread. She could not tell the outcome. Dorrin suddenly pulled her hands away, shaking them.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know—maybe nothing. Didn’t you feel it, like a sting?”

“No.”

“Another mystery. You taught me to feel the taig, but we do not feel it the same. I wish I knew more about how magery works, human and elven.”

Arian felt chilled; the sun had moved, and the palace shadowed the rose garden. When she looked up, clouds were moving across the blue and the air felt damper.

“Rain coming,” Dorrin said. “Let’s go inside.”

N
ext morning, the gentle spring rain that had begun in the night continued. Arian looked out at the courtyard and saw a cloaked and hooded figure walking toward the palace entrance. She could see nothing of the face, for the hood hid it, only one hand, holding a plain staff with the bark still on it and booted feet. Then the head tilted, and the hood fell back, revealing dark hair, a man’s bearded face—and eyes that focused on her … She knew at once it was a tree-shepherd, a Kuakgan.

She went across to Kieri’s bedchamber, where he was just dressing. “A Kuakgan has come.”

“A Kuakgan? I wonder why.” He twitched his shoulders, settling the mail shirt he still wore under his clothes, then reached for his tunic.

“Dorrin and I … she thought one might help us find the poison, since the elves didn’t. We tried to call one.”

“Good idea,” Kieri said. “We’d better go down, then, and welcome him—or is it her?”

“Are there women Kuakkgani?”

“Yes. I haven’t met one, but I’ve heard.”

They went downstairs to find the Kuakgan standing in the hall, looking around while the steward and two King’s Squires watched.

“He says you called him,” the steward said to Arian.

“I did,” she said. “With Dorrin’s help.”

“I am Master Oakhallow,” the man said. He did not bow, but inclined his head. “I have met you before, O king, if you remember.”

“I do,” Kieri said.

“This is my semblance,” Oakhallow said. “Do not try to touch me; it will vanish if you do. This was quicker than coming in the body, and I can learn what you need. Tell me why you called me.”

Kieri gestured to the others, and they left the passage so Arian could speak privately to Oakhallow.

Arian explained as simply as she could. Oakhallow’s semblance appeared to listen intently. When she had finished, he nodded. “It is likely a Kuakgan could help—I have some suspicion what might have been used, though not who used it. However, you need a Kuakgan’s presence, not a semblance. There are other Kuakkgani nearer to you; they will come.”

“They?”

“More than one person was injured; it will likely take more than one to untangle this.” The semblance—so real that Arian was sure she saw its shadow and its impression on the carpet—bowed. “I must go. Help is on the way; you and the others will have joy in the future.” The semblance turned and walked away: out the entrance, down the steps, across the courtyard, no one hindering.

Arian turned to Kieri. “I … don’t know what to think.”

“Nor I. But I feel more at ease. Help will come. That’s better than anything my grandmother said.”

A few hours later, when the rain had eased and watery sunlight made the pavement gleam, the steward announced another Kuakgan, this one a woman. Arian went down the steps to meet her. This one—shorter by a head than Arian and broader—wore the same
kind of green-and-brown patterned robe, carried a staff in her heart-hand and in addition had a large satchel slung over her shoulder.

“I’m Pearwind,” she said. “The taig has told me of trouble here and the need for tree-shepherds.”

“You know Master Oakhallow?” Arian asked.

“Root to root,” Pearwind said. “Though I have not been to his Grove. I wander, and so I have the name of wind; those with groves do not. Children dying, is it? And you are part-elven, I see.”

“Yes,” Arian said to both questions. “Children unborn, all within a few days. We think it was a poison in our food.”

“Are all the mothers part-elven?”

“I don’t know,” Arian said. “Does it matter?”

Pearwind nodded. “Elves are susceptible to some poisons that do not affect humans, and the same is true of humans. Some poisons affect both. I will need to see all the women.” Clouds were shifting overhead, moving apart. A shaft of sun brightened on them; to Arian’s surprise, Pearwind’s staff suddenly sprouted leaves and flowers … and then she realized the woman’s hand had also turned green … and bees came, humming around the woman’s head, settling into the flowers on the staff. “Oh dear,” Pearwood said. “My kuakvaduonê would not be pleased about
this
.”

“Kuakvaduonê?” Arian asked. She could think of nothing else to say, watching more and more bees stream in to cover the flowers … an entire swarm, it looked like. She could feel the taig trembling with excitement beneath the courtyard stones.

“Treeleader … teacher? She who made me Kuakgan and taught me. Sun … spring … it went to my staff …” Now the woman had a wreath of flowers on her head, and her robe no longer looked like green cloth with embroidered leaf shapes but like a robe of moss. A fern uncurled from her shoulder. “It’s my first spring since—” Her lips sprouted tiny red mushrooms as her cheeks bloomed—sprays of flowers fell down past her neck.

Two more Kuakkgani came briskly through the palace gate. “We’re here, miesiga masica,” one said. And to Arian: “Do not touch her, lady; she needs
our
help.”

Arian was not tempted to touch a woman so obviously turning into a pear tree. The Kuakkgani—one man, one woman—clasped hands around the first and sang in a language Arian did not know.
Slowly but steadily, the flowers and leaves receded, first from her face, then from her hair and her arm … Her robe no longer seemed moss, and finally her staff returned to bare wood, except for the swarm of bees. The male Kuakgan reached out his staff and hummed; the swarm edged over onto his staff. He looked at Arian.

“You have a garden here? Are there any empty skeps?”

“I don’t know,” Arian said. “I’ll ask.”

“Show me the largest garden,” he said. Arian led the way; at the far end of the kitchen garden, a row of skeps housed the palace bees. The palace beekeeper quickly fetched an empty skep from storage and set it up. The Kuakgan sang the bees into their new home, bowed to the beekeeper, and turned to Arian. “Master Oakhallow said you had need.”

“Yes,” Arian said. She explained again.

“I will make certain that Pearwind is settled, and then we will see the women.”

“What happened to her?” Arian asked. She was still not sure she’d seen what she’d seen.

“It is her first spring after becoming a Kuakgan,” he said. “She has never dealt with rising sap before.” He gave Arian a sideways glance. “And she will not want to talk about it.”

Once they were back inside, the older woman, who named herself Larchwind, lifted a small furry ball from her satchel.

“It’s a pin-pig,” she said, setting it down on the carpet, where it lay still for a moment. “They don’t like to be held, but they’re helpful in finding poison, which you suspect, I understand.”

“Yes,” Arian said. As the little animal uncurled and stood, it did have a vaguely pig-shaped body, though no larger than a kitten in size. Pale spines lifted from red-brown fur. After a bit, it minced about the room on tiny feet, its pink nose snuffling busily. “I’ve never seen one.”

“They’re rare outside Dzordanya. Now—tell me your symptoms, please.”

Arian did so, all the while watching the pin-pig quarter the room. Finally it came back to the Kuakgan, let out a high-pitched squeak-grunt, and lay down with its nose on the Kuakgan’s boot. She leaned over, picked it up, and returned it to her satchel.

“It’s not in the carpet,” Larchwind said. “I didn’t think it was, but
she enjoys running about. Now—I will need to touch your hand.” Arian nodded and held out her hand. Larchwind used her heart-hand, she noticed. After a moment, Larchwind sat back. “A plant, definitely, but your body has refused nearly all of it. I expect we’ll find the same for the others.”

They went downstairs and met the other Kuakkgani and Kieri just coming into the kitchen; the cooks and other kitchen workers were all wide-eyed, and more so when Larchwind set the pin-pig on the floor.

“She is clean and will cause no damage,” Larchwind said. “But her nose is sensitive—more than ours—and she may find something we would not. Do not fear.”

The pin-pig trotted around the main kitchen and, with Larchwind crooning to it, investigated each pantry and storeroom, one after another. The other two Kuakkgani touched wooden bowls and utensils—“listening to the wood,” they told the cooks when asked. When they’d left the main kitchen, the head cook sent her helpers back to work.

The pin-pig’s sustained squeal interrupted everyone. Kieri, Arian, and the head cook, along with the other two Kuakkgani, hurried to find Larchwind and the pin-pig.

The pin-pig stood in a corner of the spice pantry, all spines bristling out, little nose pointed upward. Larchwind, humming, was touching first one shelf, then another. Arian breathed deeply; mingled fragrances of spices and herbs tingled in her nose.

“What’s all this?” Kieri asked the cook, waving around the small room.

“All things we season with,” the cook said. “Jars down there are sauces and pickles and such, and then up on the shelves are the dry things—roots, barks, leaves, seeds and nuts and buds and stalks—once they’ve dried. Some dry in sun, some in here out of the sun. Everything in its place; I won’t have a jumble, sir king. Some must be stored in wooden boxes—the right kind of wood—and some in stone and some in clay, and some must lie open.”

“Where do they all come from?”

“Mostly from the garden and the royal forest, but some are bought from far or as gifts.”

“This, I think,” Larchwind said. She lifted a narrow box with a
carved lid and held it down to the pin-pig, whose spines flattened, then erected again. “Thank you,” Larchwind said to the pin-pig. It was silent and after a moment curled up in a ball. Larchwind scooped it up in her free hand and slipped it into her satchel again.

“But it’s—it’s the farron. Farron’s not a poison.” The cook looked ready to faint.

Larchwind opened the box. Inside were two compressed lumps and a tangle of strands, all a rich magenta at first glance. “Farron, right enough … but not just farron. Look here—” She took out one of the lumps. Originally shaped in a rectangular block, one end had been broken off—and there, in the middle of the exposed break, was a streak of lighter color.