Son of Avonar (14 page)

Evard marched out of Montevial one week after his coronation, bragging that he would finish off the Keroteans in far less time than Gevron had taken to crush Valleor. By midwinter of the first year of his reign, he claimed decisive victories on the Kerotean frontier. But dismal weather cut the campaign short, and gossip was that everything gained would be lost again by spring.

On the eve of Long Night, I decided to stay home. There had been an unending siege of entertainments celebrating Seille—the midwinter season that culminated in Long Night and the ten days until year's end—and I had refused no invitation lest any slight be noted. I flirted with any man who would look at me and made sure there was enough gossip at court that Tomas and Evard would hear of it. The king would be able to blame no man for standing higher than himself in my favor. Eventually, perhaps, he would lose interest and stop listening. But enough was enough. I pleaded the grippe and spent the evening with a wool comforter and a book of Vallorean folk tales, the winter shadows held back only by the flicker of my library fire.

The front bell rang. I assumed it was one of my latest suitors, most likely Viscount Mantegna, pleading with the butler that he would be eternally devastated if he could not drive me out in his new sleigh. Mantegna was a slobbering pup, but amusing enough. Luckily I had Joubert, the butler, well trained. “No” meant
no
.

There came a tap on the library door, and Joubert entered with a long, thin parcel in his hand. “Your pardon, my lady. A gift has arrived.”

The arm-length bundle of green silk was tied with a gold ribbon and had no card. Unrolling the layers of silk revealed a rose . . . in the middle of winter, a single, perfect red rose. The tips of the scarlet petals curled out, on the very instant of bursting open. Poised on one of them was a single dewdrop, no stray snowflake or ice pellet melted in the warmth of the room, for as I gazed upon the flower, wreathed in its sweetness, I smelled the dew-laden gardens of Windham. Enchantment . . .

I ran to the foyer to see if he was there, but the front of the house was dark and deserted. I was overwhelmed with disappointment, but only until I touched the rose again. Then I smiled, put it in a crystal vase, and set it on a low table where I could see it from every angle. The rose was message enough.

 

Spring brought the Month of Winds, when we celebrated Arot's wedding to Mana, the wind maiden who had given birth to the Twins. On each day of the Month of Winds, parents gave children presents and sweets in remembrance of the gifts Mana had given to the creatures of forest and sky at her wedding, hiding them around the house and gardens as Mana had hidden nuts for the squirrels. Midway through the month came the Feast of Vines, supposedly the most propitious day of the year for engagements and betrothals. Certainly it was a propitious day for wine-merchants.

On a rainy afternoon five days after the feast day, I attended the funeral rites for the Duke of Gamercy, a jolly, hard-drinking, foulmouthed old man who had been one of my father's closest friends. Gossip said the old man had enjoyed the Feast of Vines a bit too much for one in his sixty-seventh year. Tomas did not attend the funeral, being at Evard's side on the new campaign in Kerotea. Martin was present, though, sitting across the cold stone expanse of Annadis's temple with Tennice at his side. It was the first time I'd seen them in the seven months since Evard's coronation. Neither of them looked my way.

After the incense-filled hours of songs and stories commending the old warrior's name to the Twins as worthy to be entered on their lists of earthly heroes, the guests retired to the duke's townhouse for refreshment and reminiscence. Though I wanted nothing more than to fling myself into Martin's arms and beg for news, I followed his lead. My cousin engaged himself with a serious group of men I didn't know, making no move to approach me. Tennice left early after speaking with the widow and no one else.

As I took my own leave of the duchess, a footman presented me with the customary engraved commemorative card, folded so that the duke's arms and martial history were scribed on the outside, and the tale of his lineage on the inside. It wasn't until I got home, lonely and disappointed, that I discovered that my card had a scrap of paper inserted. The note was not signed, but two years of handwritten tutorials on the law enabled me to recognize Tennice's hand quite easily. The text read like someone's random, philosophical musings, but to me the choice of words was not at all random.

The first line confirmed my belief that Martin's failure to discourage my withdrawal from Windham was a recognition of its necessity. I wondered if he had more concrete evidence of my wisdom than did I myself. I had only instinct.

The second told me that Karon was gone. I couldn't decide whether it was more difficult to think of him traveling in some distant, unknown land than it had been to think of him at Windham, so close, yet a place I could not be. I could not consider the prospect that he might never come back. Not after the rose.

The third told me that I was missed, and that made it all very hard.

 

Summer brought the fascinating news that Evard was betrothed to the daughter of Dagobert, the last Vallorean king. It was a brilliant move on Evard's part—the legitimization of Leiran dominance over Valleor. Princess Mariel was sixteen and had been “sheltered” in a remote temple school since the day her entire family had been beheaded in front of her.

Though Leirans did not usually execute women, out of respect for Arot's holy wife Mana, spared by the monsters of earth and sky in Arot's battles in the Beginnings, they had made an exception for the Queen of Valleor. As her husband's and sons' severed heads yet stared up at their executioners, Queen Margereth vowed to lie with the first healthy Vallorean man she could find, whether noble or peasant, and thus produce an heir to Valleor more legitimate than any Leiran king. She was beheaded straightaway. But King Gevron had allowed the girl child to live, as long as she was locked up tight in a temple school and never allowed to look at a man. Perhaps even marriage to Evard would be better than that sterile prison and never tasting life at all.

The wedding was in late summer. The pale-haired girl was lost in the opulent finery Evard had selected as suitable for his bride. She was short and thin, with a long, angular face and large eyes that blinked constantly. No one was impressed by her. I wished her a tolerant heart and a self-sufficient nature; she was like to need both.

Tomas attended the wedding, of course, handsome as always and appearing to have lost no standing with Evard because of my folly. He had stood as Evard's champion three times already, and word had it that he was undefeatable. When we crossed paths near the refreshment tables, his face hardened bitterly. He spun on his heel and walked away. No healing there. Darzid, at his side as always, bowed, but did not follow my brother. He made as if to speak with me, but I excused myself politely before he could say anything. Martin was in attendance also. He greeted me with a formal bow, then turned back to another conversation. So it was not time yet.

In the second autumn of my “exile,” I turned twenty-three. I returned home early on my birthday evening, no more lonely being by myself than in a crowd of people with whom I shared no sympathetic interests. I found increasing pleasure in practicing my music and thought it would be a satisfactory celebration of the day. When Joubert opened the front door for me, he pointed to the library. “A parcel has arrived for you, my lady. I've put it in the library. I'll return to light the lamps as soon as I've hung your cloak.”

“No need for the lamps. I'm just going to play for a while.”

I entered the shadowy library, wondering who among my acquaintance had recalled it was my birthday. On the polished table was a long, thin bundle of green silk, tied with a gold ribbon. My pulse quickened. The rose was white this time, with a blush of pink at its edges, the crystalline dewdrop like a tear of joy at its perfection. I stood in the firelight, inhaling its sweet fragrance and reveling in its beauty—and even more in its meaning.

“I didn't know whether red or white was more to your liking,” came a voice from a chair in the corner, “and having been tempered in the fires of the Windham debating society, I would be the last to risk your displeasure by making unsupported assumptions. So I thought I'd best come gather evidence for myself.”

I whirled about, ignoring the thorn pricks in my fingers, and out of the shadows stepped a sorcerer, come to conjure the desire of my heart on my birthday.

“Aeren, who are you?”

The young man had turned away, not seeing what he had done and not hearing my urgent question. He was furiously launching rocks down the hillside.

I took a deep breath and went to take a closer look at the knife.

Jacopo croaked, “Don't touch it! Oh, demonfire, Seri. There's no crack there, no opening.”

“It's all right, Jaco. It's done.” But it was not all right. My eyes had not deceived me. The blade was firmly embedded in solid rock.

“Aeren,” I called again. Flushed and agitated, he dropped his stones and joined me beside the spring. I pointed to the knife, and he shrugged his shoulders, not surprised at all. What in the name of the stars had I stumbled onto? It became even more impossible to deny what had happened when Aeren yanked the knife from the stone. No mark, no slot, no chip marred the stone, and the weapon itself was neither scratched nor bent.

As I stared at the uncompromising evidence, the trees began to thrash in a rising wind, and shadows raced over the ridge top, draining the warmth from the wavering sunlight. Afternoon storms were typical of summer in the region, though drought had kept them rare the past four years. Yet no storm of nature's making had ever afflicted me with such profound unease. I shuddered with the sudden chill and found myself looking over my shoulder and scanning the horizon. Stranger still, although the sun's disk hung just over the hilltop, and the evening sky was un-marred by haze or cloud, neither my body nor Aeren's nor Jacopo's cast a shadow.

Aeren grabbed my arm and Jacopo's, and, before we could question or protest, dragged the two of us down the slope toward the wood, shoving us roughly into the thick brush under the trees and motioning us to silence. I crouched low, and soon the entire physical substance of the world was reduced to the dusty twigs beside my nose and Aeren's muscular arms, pressing me into the thicket. Dread seeped into my bones. Time twisted in a knot and turned in upon itself. The wind stank of smoke and ash—the scent of soul-searing desolation . . .

The weights lifting from my spirit and my back told me when the shadow had gone. A beam of sunlight pierced the forest roof, stinging my eyes. The still air smelled properly of hot pine needles and dry leaves, and a jay's raucous chattering roused the other birds. Jacopo and I reacted as one.

“Aeren, what was that?”

“What madness is this, Seri?” I had never heard Jacopo afraid.

“I don't know, Jaco,” I said. “I don't know.”

A frowning Aeren paid no attention to my question, but urged us down the trail toward the cottage, casting frequent glances toward the ridgetop. I had no mind to argue with him. Whatever we had experienced, I wanted no more of it. But by the time we reached the meadow and the cottage, the event was already fading into insubstantial memory, a lingering revulsion like the taste of spoilt milk. What had really happened besides a cloud passing over the sun?

Aeren himself was of far more interest to me. One language I had not tried with him. I knew only a few words, for most were long buried in the depths of history, and I had believed no one still living in the world could understand them.

Though he shook his head, his face came alive in a way I had not yet seen. I tried a few more words, and he recognized some, but not all, as if this was a language of which he, too, knew only fragments. Did he mean that he was not J'Ettanne or that he didn't know? I couldn't seem to make my question clear. One more thing to try. I formed a question in my mind with absolute clarity, sweeping aside every other thought and concern until the words stood alone like stone pillars in the desert, and then I took Aeren's hand and laid it on my temple, inviting him, with the gesture Karon had taught me, to read what was inside. He yanked his hand away and shook his head angrily, then rapped his clenched fist rapidly against his brow. So he couldn't do it, but he knew exactly what I meant.

I could hardly contain my excitement. Excitement—how strange it was. I should be terrified. No one could get wind of this or all of our lives would be forfeit: Aeren's, mine, Jaco's . . .

The old sailor sat on Jonah's bench beside the cottage door, staring at the horizon, his wide hands braced stiffly on his knees. I sat down beside him and laid my hand over his gnarled fingers. His skin was cold.

“Jaco, I'm so sorry. I'd never have gotten you involved if I'd suspected this.”

“Can he truly take our souls? Was that what he was doing up there? Evil, Seri. I've never felt such evil.”

“I'm not sure exactly what happened up there. The first part, when he did the magic, yes. When you felt prickly and alive. But what came later—the stink, the feeling of snakes slithering up your back—that was outside my experience. But I swear to you that sorcery itself is not evil, and, though he is surely dangerous—wild, half-mad, I think—I don't believe Aeren means us any harm.” A sorcerer . . . one of Karon's people . . . How in the name of all gods had he happened to come here? “I'm not sure what to do.”