Heaven's Needle (11 page)

Evenna showed them. It was a large dwelling, and Nessore Bassinos had not stinted on its ornaments. Both the balustrades flanking the great doors and the doors themselves were marked with the Celestian sunburst and looked like new additions. The earth around the house was rutted by builders' wagons and trampled by their boots. Come summer, the house's gardens would cover the damage, but for now it was still raw.

A servant greeted them as they rode up. An old woman with a snow white scarf tied over her hair in a fashion that had gone out of date in Cailan generations ago, she fussed over Evenna like a mother embracing a wayward child. Asharre was glad to hand her horse's reins to the stablehand who came for them, and gladder when the old woman offered them the use of Bassinos' baths.

The merchant had not one bathhouse but two, one for the men and one for the women, that faced each other across a portico of yellow sandstone. Tiny windows near
the ceiling pierced their curved walls. A garden lay behind them, and a chapel past that.

The chapel wasn't new, but several of its windows were. Their stained glass sparkled against mastic as pristine as fresh snow. Other windows were boarded over, their old glass not yet replaced. The holy sunburst in the largest of the new windows had an unusual design; its eight wavy rays were all of a size, instead of being longer at the cardinal points and shorter between, and the tip of each one was rounded like an onion's bulb. For some reason they made Asharre think of open palms reaching for something. Enlightenment, perhaps? One of the Blessed might know. She brushed the thought aside and went in for her bath.

The bathhouse was extraordinary in its luxury. It held basins of hot and cold water, three kinds of scented soap, a goldenwood brush with boar's-hair bristles, and decorative trinkets whose uses baffled her. Evenna came in as she was examining a sculpture of a dancing woman holding a bowl. Putting the tool aside, Asharre filled a bucket from the steaming basin.

As she sluiced water over her head, she caught Evenna looking sidelong at the scars that striped her ribs. That, too, was something Asharre had taught herself to ignore, but something in the younger woman's face made her pause.

Their eyes met. Evenna had the grace to blush. Asharre did not think it was because they were unclothed; a healer would be used to that, just as she was. Modesty died quickly on the battlefield.

The first words out of the girl's mouth confirmed her suspicions. “I'm sorry,” Evenna said, still blushing. “It's just … I've never seen so many scars on a woman.”

Asharre grunted. She supposed her stripes and welts, earned across a decade and a half spent fighting one thing
or another, might be startling to a stranger. Over the years, her skin had become a tapestry of old hurts. “Lucky for them.”

“Are they … did you … those aren't from Oralia's
annovair,
are they?”

Asharre shook her head, understanding the girl's trepidation at last. This was the first time Evenna would have been so far from home or temple, and the tales of the mountain people could be frightening to someone who did not know the truth.

“No,” Asharre said. “Most of them … the first man who taught me how to hold a sword was Surag One-Eye. He had to teach me, had to respect my oath as
sigrir.
You understand? It was his obligation as a warrior of Frosthold. But he did not have to like it, and he didn't have to be gentle about it. Most of them weren't. For a woman to become
sigrir
to negotiate her sisters' marriages is not so strange, even today. For her to take up arms is … an old custom. Very old, and very rare. Even before the sun worshippers came to the north it was not a common thing. Most often, women took that oath when all the clan's warriors had been killed raiding and warring and the only men left were graybeards and boys. So for me to learn the sword … it was not the same as saying that Frosthold's warriors were feeble or childish, but it was not far from that, and most of the men were not pleased by it.

“Surag was different. To him it was a source of pride, not an insult, that I wanted to learn the ways of war. He was … tradition was very important to him, and a
sigrir
who hewed to the old ways was, in his mind, a credit to our clan's honor and fierceness. He was proud to teach me.

“He was the one who found us when Oralia and I left Frosthold.” Asharre closed her eyes. More than fifteen years
ago, that was, but the memory still grieved her. “When we disappeared, he tracked us. No one else did. We were not much loved in the clan. There had been rumors all winter about my sister's afflictions. Most of them … most of them would have been content to let us go, and would have counted themselves well rid of her strangeness. Not Surag.”

“What happened?” Evenna whispered. Her bare shoulders were so white they glowed in the thin gray light; her face was almost as pale.

“He tried to stop us. Surag One-Eye was, as I said, a man to whom tradition mattered. For us to go south, to join the Blessed, was a betrayal of the clan's beliefs. He would not let us pass. I fought him. Surag was much more experienced, and still strong … but he was old, and blind on one side, and the cold did him no favors.” Asharre had never been more frightened in her life than she was on that winter morning, her teacher's face become a stranger's and a blade bare in his hand. Terror, and desperation, had lent her ferocity. “I did not want to kill him. But whenever I flinched, he cut me again, and finally it was clear there was no choice. So: that is where I got most of these scars. He taught me one last lesson as
sigrir
that morning.”

Asharre finished washing—the water had grown cold—and toweled herself dry. Evenna followed suit more slowly, looking thoughtful.

As Asharre was buckling the strap of her
caractan
back over her gray-green cloak, Evenna touched her forearm.

“I'm sorry for your scars,” the young Blessed said.

“Don't be. Vanity is nothing. Scars mark what you have done.”

“Yes, I suppose that's true,” Evenna said uncertainly. She rallied behind a smile. “I'm grateful to have such a formidable guardian. We all are.”

“You should have no need of me. You are only going to serve your
annovair.
Thi—the High Solaros would not have sent you into danger.”
Or me,
she added silently. Thierras d'Amalthier knew when his tools were too brittle for a task.

They rejoined the others for dinner. It was a small meal, served only to the merchant's family and his guests, but a lavish one. Asharre sat between Heradion and Bassinos' eldest daughter, Melora, a plain-faced girl who seldom lifted her eyes from her plate. After her halting attempts to draw Asharre into conversation were met with grunts, Melora sank into a timid silence that lasted until Falcien, sitting on her left, distracted her with gossip about courtiers in Cailan. Asharre paid little heed; the pratfalls of the pompous held no interest for her. Instead she turned her attention to the food.

There was plenty of it, served on dishes inlaid with bright lines of gold and copper. The drinking glasses bore the same design: eight-rayed sunbursts, Celestia's holy sign, rendered in the same curious fashion as the ones on the chapel windows.

Asharre was not the only one who noticed them. “I don't remember you being so pious,” Evenna teased, holding up her glass. She drank cold whitebriar tea, as Falcien did, and it sparkled in the candlelight. “When did you turn your house into a chapel?”

Bassinos shrugged, smiling. He was in his late middle years, broad shouldered and blunt featured, and had the easy confidence of a man who had built a good life using his own hands and wits. Though his beard was more silver than brown, his eyes kept a boyish twinkle. “Piety is profitable these days. The mountain folk are all mad for prayers and sunbursts, especially the Open-Handed Sun. Some of
them won't deal with a man who doesn't pray under it. I don't mind. One chapel window looks the same as another to me, and whatever I spend on glassblowers and builders, I'll recoup three times over by this time next year. I've already snatched a dozen contracts for coal and furs from Wyssic, and the passes are still frozen. I'll have twice as many when they open.”

“Why's that?” Heradion asked.

“Wyssic likes his feather bed. I can't fault him for it, at his age, but he misses too many dawn prayers. Best time to negotiate with these Vale men is right after services. Meet them at the chapel, bring them back for breakfast, and the deal's good as sworn once they see their new sun on my plates and windows.” Bassinos chuckled, refilling his glass with cold whitebriar tea. In deference to the Blessed at his table, he hadn't served ale, although Balnamoine was said to have several good local brews. Asharre regretted his courtesy; she would have liked a mug to go with the chestnut-sauced quail.

“New sun?” Falcien sounded casual, but he leaned in, putting an elbow on the table. “Do you mean these sunbursts with the rounded rays?”

“Aye. You noticed? Well, of course you would. That's your business, after all.” Bassinos covered a burp politely and reached for another helping of baked turnips. “The Vale traders insist on it. Past the point of decency, if you ask me. One of them smashed our town chapel's window for its ‘impious' design. Do you have any idea how much that damned window
cost
? That red glass came from Aluvair! And the gilding—aaah, but no matter. It's done. Anyway, that one was a fool and a fanatic, but they're all a sight more comfortable under their new suns. Don't seem to care much for our old ones.”

“A heresy?” Evenna asked. A thin line appeared between her eyebrows.

“The High Solaros never mentioned one,” Heradion said. “I doubt he'd have sent us if he had any such suspicions. Most likely it's just some local fashion—maybe a bit of folklore they've woven into their prayers. Every village seems to have a few of those. Farther you get from Cailan, the more there are. But they're harmless, really, and good business for the glaziers.”

“Good business for anyone who'll pray with 'em,” Bassinos said. “Crass to use my faith like that, I expect, and worse to admit it to the Bright Lady's own Blessed, but I've always been honest about my sins. They're not such awful sins, are they?”

“I've heard worse,” Evenna said. “As long as you aren't cheating on your tithes—”

“Never that,” Bassinos said, mock aghast.

“—then I suppose we'll have to forgive you. But when did the mountain towns rediscover their faith? Was there some disaster up there? Men aren't usually swept by a sudden love for prayer unless there's been war, plague, famine …”

“No, nothing. I haven't been north myself in some time, but I would have heard the stories. There's been nothing like that. Well, bandits, but there've been bandits on the iron road and pirates on the Windhurst since there was a road and a river.” Bassinos paused, momentarily reflective. “Not many of those either, lately, come to think of it. Usually I lose a shipment or two every season, but this past year … it's been quiet. Completely. Even Gerros Tulliven hasn't been raided, and he manages to hire a few highwaymen disguised as guards every year.”

“There are stories,” Melora said, lifting her head. Her fingers danced over the tines of her fork. “The mad wind.”

“Melora, dearheart,” her father said gently, “those are just stories. Our guests are worried about threats on their way to Carden Vale. The mad winds aren't likely to give them any trouble.”

“Oh,” the girl said, flushing pink. She dropped her head again, and Asharre thought with astonishment that she might be hiding tears.

Falcien cleared his throat. “I'd be interested in hearing about these winds. There's often a grain of truth in those old folktales—and even if there isn't, I love a good story.”

Bassinos nodded, a flicker of appreciation crossing his blunt face at the Celestian's courtesy. “I suppose there's no harm in the telling. It's an old tale, but it seems to have picked up new life this past season. The way the story goes, the ghosts of Duradh Mal ride the night winds in the Irontooths. They're cursed, either for what they did in life or by how they died, depending on the teller. They can't cross the Last Bridge until they've confessed all their sins, and there's no one like a Baozite for sinning. So they roam the mountain peaks looking for travelers who'll hear their confessions … but the sins they've committed are so ghastly, and the suffering they endure as ghosts so awful, that anyone who listens to them goes mad. Men strip naked and wade into the snow, letting themselves freeze to death, after listening to the mad wind. Women leap from the peaks or throw themselves into the rivers. Their deaths add to the spirits' litany of sins, and so they wander on, seeking new listeners forever.”

“It's a ghost story?” Asharre said, disbelieving.

“This is a land for ghosts, my lady. We've nothing else to do but tell stories to fill the winters. Anything can spawn a tale, and that's likely how this one started. Someone heard a wind that sounded like screaming and invented some
meaning to fit it. Someone else found a poor frozen soul who wandered out at night and got lost. Put one with the other, and that's your story. Oddities and accidents, with a dash of ghost lore thrown in for spice. To hear it told now, the wind freezes plants in summer, turns winter snow red as blood, and drives people mad all year round. Sometimes the ghosts who ride it are said to come from Duradh Mal, sometimes from Shadefell. Whatever the teller thinks sounds best.”

“Shadefell?”

Bassinos only shrugged. He scooped more turnips onto his plate, seeming faintly embarrassed. Heradion took up the tale. “That one's a ghost story too. King Aersival gave the first Lord Rosewayn the land around Duradh Mal as his fief. He'd earned it, fighting in two hard campaigns and clearing out the Long Knives from the Smokewood, but some said that the king gave the valley to Rosewayn because he wanted the man as far from the capital as possible. Rosewayn had an ugly reputation. Some of the things he did to make captured Long Knives betray their brothers … there were rumors that he was a secret Kliastan. It was that bad. Many historians claim King Aersival felt it would be easier to turn a blind eye to Rosewayn's excesses if the lord was in Carden Vale.