The Law of Isolation (9 page)

“I’ll let the two of you work out the details later. Give him whatever he asks for, Admiral.” The Matriarch held out her hands imperiously, and Nesh reluctantly surrendered the window-glass back to her. “Professor Navorre, you may join me for the midday meal. Steward, I wish to be served on the terrace.”

The steward bowed and hurried off. The Matriarch, surrounded by her retinue, swept with purposeful stride down from the dais and out the doorway in the back of the hall. Gevan was carried along in their wake. He brushed surreptitiously at the wine-colored velvet of his doublet. He’d worn his finest clothes for the morning’s audience, but the best he could afford on his modest professor’s salary looked cheap and shabby next to the splendor of the Matriarch’s court.

The group proceeded through the corridors of the palace, up a series of stairs, and emerged through wide oaken doors onto a broad terrace. It commanded a sweeping view of the city and sea. From here the Matriarch could watch all that transpired in her realm. Whenever the Armada set out to meet the latest aggression by Marvanna, tradition dictated that the Matriarch preside over the deployment from this high post, keeping daily vigil from sunrise to sunset until the fleet returned.

She wouldn’t suffer any deprivation during those days, Gevan noted. The terrace was as luxuriously appointed as any of the rooms in the palace. A multitude of great planters held lush greenery and brilliant blooms, transforming the austere stone of the palace walls into a garden. A banquet table stood in their midst, as large as the one in the grand dining hall. Overhead, woven canopies stretched over wooden frameworks, shading the table from the fierce sun.

The Matriarch led Gevan to the low wall at the edge of the terrace. She lifted the window-glass to her eye and aimed it toward the streets below. “Amazing. I doubt I shall ever tire of this. Look, I can see the stripes on the sailors’ trousers! Those are crates of oranges they’re loading, I believe. Giroda will pay well for them.”

She lowered the window-glass and turned to Gevan, fixing him with the full force of her regard. It was all he could do to keep from squirming. “Professor Navorre—may I call you Gevan?”

“Of course, your majesty.”

“Were you serious when you said you believe
all
the ancient wizards’ powers can be duplicated? It wasn’t an exaggeration designed to inflate the importance of your invention? Come, I understand how these things are done. If you felt the need to pad your claims, you can confess without fear. I promise I won’t hold it against you, as long as you’re honest with me now. What you’ve presented today is quite remarkable enough to earn my gratitude, even if you accomplish nothing more.”

The persuasiveness of her voice and her gentle demeanor almost convinced Gevan that she was sincere. If he’d harbored any real doubts, he would have been sorely tempted to voice them. But the Matriarch wasn’t known for her leniency toward those who disappointed her. She
was
reputed to be skilled in extracting information and agreements when she exerted the full force of her personality.

Besides, his conviction was firm. “No, your majesty. I meant everything I said. It’s only a matter of time and patient inquiry until I, or perhaps other scholars, discover how to reproduce all the wizards’ powers.”

“Including healing?”

He should have realized where this was heading. “Including healing, your majesty. I haven’t yet turned my attention to that area, but I’ve done a great deal of preliminary reading of the ancient documents. I’m thoroughly convinced that healing, too, was accomplished through natural and reproducible methods.”

“I want you to focus your research on those methods, Gevan. As soon as you’ve taught others to construct these, so Nesh can have as many as he wants.” She waved the window-glass in a great sweep. “Valuable as it is, it will seem only a toy if you can accomplish what all my healers and wise women haven’t been able to do.”

Gevan knew what she referred to. The Matriarch desperately wanted to conceive and bear a daughter to inherit the throne after her death. The line of Matriarchs stretched unbroken, they claimed, to the great Tharanirre herself, the last Oligarch, with her husband Yashonna, of the Ravanethan Empire. Gevan had his doubts. There were no reliable records of the century following the Oligarchs’ downfall, when Ravanetha had been wracked by war and natural disaster. Eventually the empire had splintered into the three major powers and scattering of smaller ones that occupied the continent now. But the current Matriarch believed it, and viewed the responsibility of carrying out her dynastic duty with deadly seriousness.

When Verinna had come to the throne at her mother’s death, she’d been a young woman. No one had anticipated any difficulties. She’d married her first consort in a great public celebration and was pregnant within a year. That child had been a son, unable to carry on the line of the Matriarchs. He was in his twenties now, a junior officer in the Armada, Gevan thought he remembered.

After that, though, Verinna’s attempts at motherhood were marked by one tragedy after another. She’d suffered a series of miscarriages; Gevan wasn’t sure how many, for her pregnancies ceased to be announced publicly after the third loss. One infant girl was born too soon and died within the day. Another had lived nearly a week before she, too, died.

Verinna had divorced her first consort, giving him custody of their young son. She took a series of others, all young, virile men, handsome of face and strong of body, but weak-willed and dominated by Verinna’s power. A few pregnancies resulted, but none produced a living child. Verinna tossed consorts aside like discarded toys, drawing the attention of the nascent Purifier sect. The common folk of Ramunna had listened when they’d condemned Verinna’s conduct as immoral and corrupt.

Eventually Verinna had tired of husbands, and went for several years unmarried before wedding her current consort, Lord Renarre. He was grave and quiet, a successful trader who had plied the seas between Ramunna and Giroda for years. On the few occasions they appeared in public together there seemed to be genuine affection between them, but their union had proved as unfruitful as the others.

Frantic that her advancing age might end her chance to birth an heir, Verinna had turned to the stories of the ancient wizards’ healing magic. She’d sought out anyone who claimed to have knowledge of healing. A colorful parade of scholars and charlatans, wise women, herbalists and purveyors of secret remedies had attempted to cure Verinna’s barrenness, but none had succeeded. At last, in desperation, she’d dispatched the expedition into the Eastern Sea, seeking the fabled land where legend claimed a handful of wizards had fled.

Now she turned to him with the passion of her quest in her eyes. “Do you understand why it’s vital I produce an heir to rule Ramunna after me?”

He’d heard rumors, but nothing more. “Isn’t there a distant branch of your family who’d seek to claim the throne?”

“My cousin. When my mother took the throne, her younger sister left Ramunna. She settled in Naturra when it was still an independent state. When Marvanna conquered Naturra, they allowed her to remain, as long as she foreswore allegiance to Ramunna. By all reports she led a quiet, private life. She married and gave birth to several children, including her eldest daughter, Malka.

“We watched them, of course, first my mother, and then I. My aunt died not long after my mother did. My spies had little to report until about ten years ago, when Malka became an ardent follower of the Purifiers. Since then she’s gathered enough supporters to provide a considerable base of power. She hasn’t made any overt moves, but I know she’s only biding her time. If I die without a daughter of my own, she’ll assert her right to inherit the throne of Ramunna. And what choice would Ramunna have but to accept her?”

The Matriarch’s eyes burned into Gevan’s. “She will deliver my realm to the Purifiers. They’ll wipe out everything we’ve labored for centuries to build. Our trade with Giroda—if they expel the Dualists as they have from Marvanna, it will be crippled. The University—you know very well what will happen to it if the Purifiers come to power. Our independence, which the Armada has so ably defended—they’ll sell us to Marvanna without a thought. Ramunna as we know it will be lost forever.”

The future she described chilled Gevan. It could easily come to pass just as she said, if indeed her cousin harbored such ambitions. “You can’t allow that to happen.”

“No, I can’t.” She gripped the window-glass so hard Gevan feared she might dent the thin metal. “That’s why I must demand that you do your utmost to rediscover the wizards’ healing skills.”

“Yes, of course, your majesty. I understand.” He hated to put aside his work with light and lenses. He’d made so much progress. New discoveries were surely close, just a few calculations away. In comparison to the clean lines and neat mathematical formulae that described the behavior of light, the human body was so… messy. Huge amounts of superstition and contradictory lore surrounded every facet of health and disease, none more so than fertility. Gevan had no idea where to begin.

But he must try. Both because the Matriarch demanded it, and because he now appreciated what was at stake.

Already his mind was chipping away at the problem. “From applying my knowledge of current medicine to my reading of the ancient documents, I suspect the ancient wizards used potions and devices similar to those used by physicians today, only with far more effect. I think I should start by consulting with the most successful practitioners of those arts. Once I understand their methods, I can attempt to advance them.”

“I’ll send my wise woman to you; she’s done more for me than anyone else.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Gevan fell silent, lost in thought about how to approach the matter. He had some personal experience with pregnancy and birth, but it was a long time ago, and the memories were still painful. He’d given the subject little thought since. He would question the wise woman in depth to see whether she had a true understanding of the process or was as superstitious as most of her fellows.

The Matriarch was quiet, also. She lifted the window-glass and scanned the city and harbor. At length she pointed it toward the horizon.

“According to my calculations, it should be possible to see things as much as twenty miles away before the curvature of the world’s surface blocks them from view. I’d like to confirm that by taking sightings of a ship as it sails a known distance, with your majesty’s permission. After the more pressing investigations have produced results, of course. If my predictions are correct, it will provide evidence to support Yomin’s calculations of the radius and circumference of—”

Gevan broke off. The Matriarch clearly wasn’t listening. She stood frozen, barely breathing, fiercely intent on what she saw through the window-glass. Gevan followed its line toward the horizon, but saw nothing. “Your majesty?”

“I see two ships. One is ours; I recognize the set of sails used by our largest traders. Most are in port or recently departed for Giroda; none are due back within the next month. Save the
Verinna
.”

Her voice roughened. “Beside it sails a smaller ship. Its sails are like nothing that’s ever docked at our port. The only place I’ve seen something similar is in ancient artwork depicting the fleets of the Ravanethan Oligarchs.” Her hands trembled. Only a tiny bit, but she cursed and lowered the window-glass. “I’ve lost them.”

She extended the window-glass to Gevan. “Look and confirm my sighting. On the horizon, a few degrees north of northeast.”

Gevan took the glass and scanned the sea. It took some time, because the glowing circle encompassed such a small fraction of the horizon, but eventually he found the spot. The two ships were there, just as the Matriarch had described. Only the sails were visible above the horizon line, one set familiar, the other strange. “I see them, your majesty.” He swallowed. “I agree. It must be the
Verinna
. With—” Gevan shook his head, unable to continue. He’d been so certain the expedition would return empty-handed.

“With a ship full of wizards.” The Matriarch’s voice was soft and firm. “Twenty miles, you said? It will be late afternoon before they arrive. We’ll proceed with the meal as planned, then I will greet them at the dock. You may accompany me. I expect you’ll be eager to see your theories confirmed.” She smiled at him, but it was an abstract expression, her thoughts far away. “You’ll be saved much fruitless striving down wrong paths when the wizards show you how they produce their powers.”

He would. He should be pleased at the prospect. If he was right, the reappearance of the lost wizards would prove it. He could learn about their wondrous devices and the forces of nature they exploited far more swiftly and surely than he could have ever hoped to discover them on his own.

Why then, did the sight of the strange sail leave a hollow aching in the pit of his stomach? Surely he wasn’t so shallow as to resent the abrupt loss of the Matriarch’s attention. He wasn’t seeking to discover the wizards’ powers to gain her favor, or fame, or fortune, though those things would be pleasant side benefits. He was doing it to increase humankind’s understanding of the Mother’s creation. To prove that rational thought and objective observation, not superstition and blind faith, were the true path to enlightenment. The appearance of real wizards, if indeed that was what the strange ship contained, could only advance those goals.

But still, the blocky, antique sails mocked him.
Everything you believe is false,
they whispered.

He lowered the window-glass and held it out to the Matriarch. She waved it aside. “Give it to Nesh. He’ll still want them. Then come to the table; they’re ready to serve the meal.”

Gevan slid the window-glass to its shortest length and went to retrieve its leather case.

Five

N
irel tore her eyes from the land and concentrated on lashing the sail to the spar. She pulled the last knot tight with a fierce tug. Then, finally free to stare, she clung to the ropes and shaded her eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun.