The Starfollowers of Coramonde (20 page)

He got to the
open gates and fired at shadows from frustration, but heard the hoofbeats dying
away into the night.
Maggie’s drawers,
he chided himself;
I missed.
There was no other horse there. The Mauser was empty. He dashed back the way
he’d come.

It wasn’t
hard to find Swan and Andre; smoke and commotion drew him to them. The wizard
had used a Dismissal on the guardian, but the fires had taken hold, endangering
the library. Swan directed the Sisters in fighting the blaze, the Sages working
side by side with them, using sand, water and their own robes. Gil got the High
Constable’s attention, relating what had happened.

“We cannot
hie after him now,” she said, wiping her smudged cheek with a blistered hand.
Her blue cape was scorched.

He grated,
“We can’t do anything else. We can only collar him if we start now.”

She blew up.
“I have casualties to think about! My brother’s dead, and if Ladentree is
consumed Glyffa loses half its heritage. So go, chase him yourself if you must;
I have no time to waste beating the bushes in the night. Now leave me be!” She
pushed past him.

He went to
the wizard. “It’s you and me. We have to take Bey ourselves.”

Andre shook
his head regretfully. “He has more Southwastelanders with him, and we know not
where he is gone. He trapped you once tonight; would you make it twice?”

Gil was
disbelieving. “What’s wrong with you?”

Andre’s tone
was hard. “I have been against Bey for longer years than you can imagine. This
is not the closest I have come to him, only to lose him.” Andre, too, went back
to fighting the fire.

Gil, ready to
take up the chase by himself, was stopped by common sense. He hadn’t the
vaguest idea which way the sorcerer had gone, and he’d never even tracked
anybody by day, much less pitch darkness. He’d made one dumb move that night,
he admitted; a second one wouldn’t cancel that. Tearing off his steel cap, he
hurled it at the floor; it rebounded with a belling sound.

Swan was
commanding Sisters of the Line to tote more ancient codices and folios out of
danger. Gil fell in with them. “You’re right,” he conceded gruffly. Now it was
her turn to stare in surprise.

They fought
the fire under control by phases. Gil tried to imagine what special advantage
the Hand of Salamá had carried into the night.

Although it fall and die that
night—

It was the plant and flower of
light…

Ben Jonson

“It Is Not Growing Like a Tree”

WHEN they were sure no last spark
remained, Gil trudged off tiredly through the smoke with the others. No one
could calculate how much irreplaceable knowledge had been incinerated.

Andre went off
to see how Ferrian was. Gil found space at a bench where two Sisters of the
Line and a few Sages sat numbly. Someone had left food on the table, dark bread
and jars of cold well water, sliced fresh fruit from the library’s orchards and
slabs of cheese. He helped himself mechanically, and asked where Swan was.

A
cavalrywoman told him, “She has gone to the chapel, to do prayer for her
brother. We are billeted for the night; our casualties are being attended by
Sages of Healing and the Trustee’s son, deCourteney. The High Constable
commanded that your baggage be set there, by the door. Your horse has been seen
to.”

Dirge was
among the things they’d brought. He faced the Sages. One of them was the man
who’d led him to the rear gates.

“Hey, any of
you know anything about swords?”

They stopped
talking and looked among themselves. The Sage Gil knew stood. “I am
Silverquill, chief savant here. I have some familiarity with metal working and
the various master smiths.”

Gil got
Dirge, unscabbarded it and threw it onto the polished wood. It landed on the
table with a gong that hung in the air. There was a sinister glitter to the
black, runcinate blade, as if its sawing teeth waited to bite flesh. Sages and
cavalrywomen alike examined it. None tried to touch.

Silverquill
leaned over it, yellowed nail tracing one glyph, a flaming mandala. “This mark
and the stamp of the weapon wrights of Death’s Hold, I know, are inscribed in
implements of dark renown. This is Dirge, is it not?” Gil confirmed it. “Then
take great care; this hanger will do nothing but harm, wounds that only its
dreaded owner may heal. Dirge seldom cuts but that it kills, by its edge and
its runes of death. Yardiff Bey is said in the texts to hold it in highest
merit.”

Gil sat
staring at the blade, speculating how he might use that. The others became
uncomfortable. One by one they drifted away to stand guard duty, rest, or just
leave Dirge and the morose outlander. Presently, he was alone in the small
sphere of light from the candelabrum.

He touched
the mandala glyph cautiously, feeling its cool fire. Then he slammed Dirge back
into its scabbard, roused himself and began digging through his saddlebags.

Finding the
oily rag and cleaning kit he carried, he took down the Browning and cleaned it,
his mind elsewhere. When the Hi-Power was reloaded and returned to the shoulder
rig, he stripped the Mauser, working proficiently. There were three rounds left
for it, two for the Browning. They were both nine-millimeter weapons, but their
ammo wasn’t interchangeable. He was nearly done with the Mauser when he
realized he wasn’t alone. Replacing the magazine base plate, he saw Swan
standing at the edge of the light.

She’d shed
her armor, washed and combed out the straight, glossy black hair until its ends
floated around her waist. She’d found a robe somewhere, simple black muslin,
caught around her hips with an antique belt of beaten silver plaques. He was
startled to see how young she looked, standing with the right half of her face
in shadow. He finished quickly and holstered the pistol.

“I’m sorry
about Jade,” he faltered, “truly sorry.”

She took a
seat across from him. Her long brown fingers interlocked. “He was so close,”
she told him softly. “Jade lived for the Reconciliation; to make it work. The
Trustee knew his name, thought him an important thought-shaper among the men.
Do you know how many times we spoke? I have reckoned it. Today, finding him
dying there in the corridor, was seven. Precisely seven times.”

Her cheek
gave a tug. “Why should death find Jade on the eve of Reconciliation?”

He wondered
if he should leave, but it came to him that if she’d wanted solitude, Ladentree
was full of it. He was accosted by his own griefs and regrets, evoked by hers.
To deny them, he got up and took her hand and the candelabrum. She came to her
feet. Taking the light from him, she led the way to the room she’d chosen in
the secluded upper reaches of Ladentree, over the Sixth Hall of Antiquities.

When they
stood together, he tilted her chin to see her full face in the glow. She resisted,
catching his hands with a tight grip. He moved closer, brushed her hair away
and kissed the hot curve of her throat. She had some second thought, or
misplaced spasm of propriety in mourning. He stopped her when she might have
pushed him away, drawing her arms around his neck. She locked her mouth to his.

There was
little sense of transition. They left clothes behind and matched themselves
along each other on the short, narrow bed. Its mean confines were an
environment severed from any other. Both had worried about their own
awkwardness. But uncertainties fell away; hesitations hadn’t followed them.
They made trusting, unhurried exploration, through levels of excitement. In
their vergency he heard a victorious sound low in her throat.

They were
left with a fragile tenderness. He went to brush the hair back from her
birth-badge; she ducked away. He laid her fingertips to the powderburn tattoo
on his cheek. She shook back black tresses, defiantly. He pretended to examine
it closely, then nipped her nose. She throbbed with laughter.

After a
while, she said, “It is some time that you have not been with a woman.” She
felt his nod against her cheek. “Nor I with a man. Once, I thought to put aside
my duties and bear a child. But it was not to be; as it came out, I have
contributed more to Glyffa this way.”

She stretched
up for a kiss. “But you, outlander, exemption, I am glad you came here.” He was
sorry he hadn’t said it first, but seconding her now would sound lame. Instead,
he reciprocated the kiss, and caressed the angry red wash of flesh on her neck.

“When I was
young,” she confided, “the other girls made sport of it. So, when we practiced
at swords, I would tie back my hair and make a face at them, so.” She showed
him, the coal-gleaming mane gripped back in her left hand, imaginary rapier in
her right. She grimaced savagely, eyes bulging. He laughed, then she did. “But
it was effective, yes. I was ever the attacker, the winner. They ceased
japing.” She became reflective. “Then the Trustee saw me, and said, ‘Little one
with your warrior-mark, we have enough of lasses handy with a sword. Let us see
if there is in you a leader.’”

Conversation
slackened soon; desire took hold again.

At length, they
held one another, warm and lazy. Gil’s last thought was that he would least
have thought that this particular day would bring him peace, however ephemeral.

He was
awakened by a hand on his mouth. It would normally have sent his hand burrowing
for the pistol under his pillow, but the love-pax had survived the
discontinuity of sleep. Swan pulled him up to come with her. Goosefleshing,
they went to the window. Dawn just touched the horizon. He knew unhappily that
he’d have to leave soon.

Some of the
little white birds he’d seen terrorized the day before were in the courtyard
below, trilling a haunting song.

“What are
they?”

“Those are
the Birds of Accord. Once, ages ago, they nested and bred in the branches of
the Lifetree itself. When it was destroyed, they fled here to Ladentree,
sensing its tranquility. They live out their long lives, but when they die it
will be the end of their kind. The Birds of Accord mated only among the
branches of the Life-tree.”

The floor
under his bare feet sent him looking for his clothes. She wrapped herself in a
blanket and sat on the bed, hugging her knees, watching him. As he sat lacing
his shirt, she spoke suddenly.

“Did you
leave her, or she you? Or did she die, or did you argue? Or are you going back
to her?”

He stopped. “Her
name was Duskwind. She died; I did too, a little. Bey’s fault. I’m going to
kill him for it, and free a friend of mine he’s holding.”

“You
mentioned your friend second.” There was coolness in her voice. “Is revenge
more important?”

“I—” He went
back to the lacings. “I don’t know. I can’t separate them.” She saw the Ace of
Swords as he slipped it around his neck.

There was a
blast of trumpets. She sprang to her feet. Her persona was now High Constable;
she was into her armor, white-wing-helmeted, before he finished dressing.

Downstairs,
they found Andre greeting the Trustee, Angorman and two squadrons of cavalry.
The Trustee demanded, “All is secured?”

Swan
answered, “There is more to matters than that, but yes.”

“Then,” said
the old woman, “let us go rest from all this whooping about. It is always a
treat to visit Ladentree.”

They went to
an inner garden of the library. Silverquill appeared, and welcomed the Trustee
with a deep bow. She returned it equally. “Please be comfortable,” the Sage
invited, “but I ask you to put weapons aside. There have been enough tools of
war brandished here in Ladentree.”

Swan and
Andre laid aside their swords and Gil put down his guns. Angorman looked
stubborn; he was thinking of his last separation from Red Pilgrim, at Dulcet’s.
“Come, Saint-Commander,” beckoned the Trustee, “lay your axe against the rose
trellis. It will not be alone.” She leaned her rune-carved Crook of Office next
to it. They all found places on benches of agate centuries old.

Swan told
what had happened in crisp, accurate style.

“This
misfortune is less than it could have been,” the ruler of Glyffa decided.
“Bey’s information was faulty; he lost much time in his hunting. Since he came
himself, trusting no subordinate, a major advantage must have been at stake. I
would give a pretty to ken what he won last night.”

Swan asked,
“How stand things with the Southwastelanders?”

“The Occhlon
withdrew, but regrouped, positioned at a certain disadvantage, inviting us to
close with them.” The old woman shook her head in wry humor. “I can recognize a
pig in the parlor when I see one there, or a worm on a hook. They wanted to
engage us, thus I sought elsewhere for their real motive. Setting my Lord
Blacktarget to keep surveillance, I came here to find it, but not in time to
strive against Yardiff Bey.”

She drew on
memories for a moment, then decided they were something the others there should
hear. “I remember the Hand of Salamá in his youth, ere his foul affiliations
were known, an avaricious boy, hungry for power. I was foremost among the
Adepts then, having earned my Crook. Where Salamá stands now, the center of the
Unity was then. The Lifetree bloomed nearby, its upper branches in the clouds,
its roots delving to the earth’s core, holding all spheres in its grand equilibrium.
Gift of the Bright Lady, it was the demonstration of the Unity’s office.
Sojourners from every earthly quarter saw it; it is in most religions still. We
held high hopes for the human race in those days.”

“And the
sorcerer?” prodded Angorman.

“Bey, yes; a
willful one, even then. But of course, it was the demon Amon who seduced the
Five. While the rest of us sat in the shade of the Lifetree, complacent or
preoccupied with higher knowledge, Amon stole among the Lords Paramount of the
Unity. Even Dorodor, central figure of the Unity, more demigod than man, failed
to detect it.