The Sea of Time (39 page)

Kirien herself stood behind a screen by the door.

The inhabitants of the college had kept their visitor under covert observation since his arrival the previous evening with a large hunting party that claimed to be lost in the dense fog. The Director had pointed out that Valantir across the river had better accommodations, but Caldane had insisted that he couldn’t find the Jaran keep, which might have been true. On the other hand, the Caineron and the Jaran hadn’t been on good terms since the previous summer. Certainly, the current if temporary lord of Valantir, Kirien’s uncle, would have objected to Caldane’s hunters on his land. So did Kirien, as the Jaran Lordan.

Caldane wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gilded leathers, leaving a greasy smear.

“For this hospitality, again, much thanks,” he said. “Such a fog I’ve never before seen, although we do get some monsters in the early spring. They can last for days.”

“I trust you wouldn’t be exiled from your home for that long, my lord,” said Ran Taur dryly.

Caldane shot the big Kendar a suspicious look. Was he being hinted away?

Yes
, thought Kirien.
Go
.

Caldane leaned back. His chair groaned as he overlapped it on all sides.

“We won’t be leaving just yet,” he said. “I’ve wanted to have a word with you for some time, Ran Taur.” He gestured around him at the library’s scrolls on their towering shelves under the vaulted roof. “It’s about these. How many would you say came with us to Rathillien?”

“Several dozen, at least. We didn’t have time to gather more.”

“And the rest?”

“Scrollsmen and singers dictated them from memory.”

“Ah. Singers. Now, this has always puzzled me: given their use of the Lawful Lie, how can we trust anything that they say?”

“Singers swear not to distort the basic truth in their songs.”

“But they do take liberties with it.”

“They may. Such songs as abuse the privilege, however, don’t endure, nor do we record them.”

Caldane leaned forward. “But how do you know what to write down and what to let fade? This summer, my hunters were put off the trail of a particularly valuable golden willow with some song only two generations old. I gather, after questioning my own scrollsmen, that that song endures only in memory.”

“Then it isn’t law. Your hunters were misled.”

“Ah. I thought as much. And what about these songs of Ashe’s about the battle at the Cataracts? I was
there
, man. The dead didn’t speak to me. They were just that: dead.”

“If you don’t hear something yourself, my lord, does that make it a lie?”

“If some blasted singer says it, does that make it the truth?”

“That depends on the judgment of the scrollsmen, when it comes to recording a particular song. The two branches of the college keep each other in check. Have you discussed this matter with my lord Corrudin?”

Caldane looked huffy. “I’ve talked to my uncle, yes, although he tends to back into a corner whenever addressed. What that little Knorth bitch did to him at Tentir, I’ve yet to discover, except that it involved falling out a window. He helped me to make sense of things, although we didn’t reach the same conclusions on some matters.”

He made himself sit back with a creak of wood and leather. His beringed, pudgy fingers tapped nervously on the arms of his chair. “Now see here: I don’t quarrel with the oldest songs, the ones composed before the Fall that come to us only through memory. After all, those can be dismissed as legends rather than laws. It’s the more recent lot that worry me. For instance, those that demand individual responsibility rather than loyalty to one’s lord.”

“Honor’s Paradox,” murmured Ran Taur, “born of Gerridon’s fall.”

“Yes. That. A lot of romantic claptrap, if you ask me. Why, my own war-leader, Sheth Sharp-tongue, was misled by it, and the result? He released that brother of his . . .”

“Bear.”

“. . . a dangerous madman, mind you, to roam the Riverland at will. Then the Highlord’s hoyden sister graduated from Tentir, against my express orders.”

“The randon have their own code, as you may have noticed. They are not political.”

“Tell that to the Randir.”

The Director sighed. “M’lady Rawneth pushes to have her own will, not unlike you, m’lord.”

Caldane scowled, uncertain if he had just been handed a compliment, an insult, or simply a fact.

“You think I am wrong to want the Knorth so-called lordan returned to her proper place? What kind of a success has she been at Kothifir, pray tell? I’m told that she is often absent from her post in the camp. Will Harn punish her for that? Probably not. He has also been corrupted by such songs as Ashe sings. Huh. That woman is an abomination. She should have long since been consigned to the pyre where she belongs.”

Kirien became aware of a coldness beside her, and Ashe’s yellow, knobby hand touched her arm.

“Caldane’s men . . . have sealed off the college,” the haunt singer muttered in her hoarse, halting voice. “Not that the fog . . . hadn’t already.”

“But why would Caldane do such a thing?”

“I don’t know . . . but from what I’ve heard . . . I suspect.”

“Have we no way to signal Valantir for help?”

“Not . . . that I can see.”

“Well, we still have this.” Kirien extracted a tablet from her jacket and began to write on it in her rapid, spiky script.

“There are no far-writers closer than Gothregor,” said Ashe. “It and the Matriarch Trishien . . . are a hundred miles away.”

“I know Tori and Aunt Trish. They’ll find some way to answer, although it may take time.”

“Then there’s another song of special interest to me,” Caldane was saying, leaning forward again, more eagerly than before although he sought to hide it. “‘Gerridon Highlord, Master of Knorth, a proud man was he. The Three People held he in his hand—Arrin-ken, Highborn, and Kendar—by right of birth and might.’ D’you remember it?”

“Everyone does,” said the Director. “So?”

“My own scrollsmen tell me that it was composed on this world after the Fall and subsequently written down. Only one copy exists. Now, that I would like to see.”

“Why?”

Caldane airily waved a fat, dismissive hand. “What would your scholars say? Intellectual curiosity.” He looked around the library. “Is it here?”

“Possibly. Most Kencyr know that song by heart, though, passed on as it has been from mouth to mouth. No one has had to refer to the original manuscript in years. Who even knows where it is?”

“One man, I’m told,” said Caldane, leaning back again with a smug smile. “A scholar named Index.”

III

SOMEONE MUST HAVE RUN ON AHEAD, because Torisen and Yce were met at the gate of Gothregor by Burr, Rowan, Grimly, and a dozen other Kendar. So much for his hope to slip in unobserved.

“We’ve built up the mess hall fire,” said Burr, steadying him as he dismounted. “You can strip and bathe in front of it.”

“I thought maybe the stable would be more suitable . . .”

“No.”

Torisen submitted. He owed them that much for having given them such a scare, and the warmth of the leaping fire would be more than welcome. His fingers shook with the cold as he fumbled at clasps and laces. The black leather was slimy with mud, and it clung. With Rowan’s help, he peeled it off. Grimly hauled free a boot and regarded its ripped sole.

“Shwupp?” he asked, looking up.

“On a hillside, no less, and that damn golden willow too. It must have been hibernating under cover of the alder coppice.”

They sluiced him down with warm water, leaving a muddy mess on the floor. Burr returned with clean clothes and boots. Kindrie burst into the hall on his heels.

Torisen and his cousin hadn’t spoken since the latter had suggested that all binding might be a Shanir trait—something which Tori didn’t wish to consider. In the meantime, Kindrie had stayed out of his way, devoting himself in his own quarters to sorting through the Highlord’s long-neglected correspondence. He had a scroll in his hand now and his face was nearly as white as his hair.

Now what?
Torisen wondered as he dried himself with a scrap of sheepskin.

“Speaking of the willow,” he said, turning to Rowan, “it occurs to me that it only does harm when someone is chasing it. Therefore, I’m giving it the freedom of the forest, as long as it stays on my land.”

“Well enough,” said Rowan, with her habitual lack of expression, “but who’s going to explain that restriction to a tree?”

Kindrie was virtually dancing with agitation. “Please, read this.”

“You read it. My hands are wet.”

Kindrie gulped and unrolled the scroll. “‘From Caldane, Lord Caineron, to Torisen, Lord Knorth, greetings,’” he began in a shaky voice.

“Caldane never calls you Highlord if he can help it,” remarked Rowan.

“‘Last summer you may have heard of a dispute between the Caineron and the Jaran over the ownership of a particular golden willow. The Jaran sought to prove their case with a song, and while they were singing it, the tree in question escaped. As you may recall, I have never cared for singers’ fancies. Consequently, I propose to visit Mount Alban near winter’s end to undertake some long overdue housecleaning. If I hear nothing from you before that time, I will assume that you agree with the measures that I intend to undertake.’”

“Sweet Trinity,” Torisen said, staring at his cousin. “When did this arrive?”

“A fortnight ago. He must have known that you wouldn’t get to it in time.”

A disturbance at the door caused heads to turn. In glided a Jaran lady, moving faster than seemed possible given her tight underskirt. Lenses worked into her mask swept the room, settling on Torisen.

“My lord, have you heard?”

“Just now, Matriarch. How did you . . .”

Trishien produced a tablet covered with a spiky script not her own. “Caldane has seized Mount Alban!”

“What about Valantir?” demanded Rowan. “The Jaran are closest, and the college’s natural defenders.”

“The fog is even worse to the north,” said Trishien impatiently. “The keeps there are cut off from each other, and no one closer than Gothregor can far-write.”

“We’ll have to ride fast, then,” Torisen said, belatedly grabbing his pants and struggling into them. “It’s a good hundred miles to Mount Alban. With regular changes, post-horses can make it by tonight.”

“There are only a dozen or so remounts standing ready at each station,” Rowan warned.

“My vanguard will take them, leaving one or two for emergencies. The rest of the Knorth must follow as quickly as they can. They may be able to pick up fresh horses at Falkirr, Shadow Rock, and Tentir. Call up an armed hundred-command, Rowan.”

“I’ll find a divided skirt and come with you,” said Trishien. “Don’t leave without me.” She was gone before anyone could protest.

Torisen finished dressing more slowly, thinking, as people rushed about him. How big a force had Caineron brought? What exactly did he mean to do, and how quickly could he do it? The heart of the Kencyrath lay at Mount Alban, encoded in a matrix of scrolls and songs. True enough, the last two had become confused during the flight to Rathillien, and the Lawful Lie hadn’t helped, but to lose any one of them risked unraveling the very fabric of his world.

As he buckled his belt, he thought of something else.

“Burr, go back to my quarters and fetch Kin-Slayer. Yes,” he added, seeing his servant’s startled expression. “It’s that serious.”

IV