Aftermath, p.23
Aftermath, page 23
Walegrin and his men had the first of three great watches these days, coming on duty in the cold, predawn hours, then relieved at just about this time. Even if the man hadn’t been his brother-in-law, Dubro would have chosen him over the other two watch commanders, the eminently corruptible Aye-Gophlan or the murdering Zip, to tell about Illyra’s visions.
And lately, as Illyra suspected, they’d found a comfortable subject of conversation in their concerns for her. A hearty meal and a few mugs of ale in the all-male taproom of the Tinker’s Knob might be just the cure for his own irksome malaise. The market-day crowds parted before him once his destination, the palace barracks, was fixed in his mind.
“There, you see, I told you it was nothing,” Prince Kadakithis said with rather too much surprise in his voice to be entirely convincing.
Illyra nodded weakly. They might have at least warned her that her examiner would be none other than her own half-brother—and whatever other flaw Walegrin might have, his sense of family loyalty was above reproach. He’d made it plain that it was reasonable to panic when one of those infernal snakes was around.
“I’m certain the kitchens have got more than enough food. Shall I have the guards escort you there? I’d go myself, but …” The prince cast his eyes upward—in the general direction of not only the nursery but the Hall of Justice and Torchholder’s suite of exchequer and registry. Neither husband nor ruler, yet somewhat more than a decorative figurehead, Kadakithis showed his adolescence more these days than he had seven years ago when he had first arrived as a naive puppet. He was growing but not yet grown.
“Thank you, I can find it myself,” Illyra assured him,
He seemed genuinely relieved and took off at a decidedly unregal trot. Illyra had a flash vision of him seated on a steel-colored stallion, then nothing, as her thoughts turned to the aromas wafting out of the beehive-roofed kitchen. They’d recognize her there and accord her the same distant politeness the other palace retainers did: they knew they were better than some S’danzo wench from down in the Bazaar even if she did have the ear of royalty and the gods.
With a tightly woven basket, worth more than the food it contained, slung in her shawl, Illyra strolled into the bright forecourt. She might wander along the general’s road to the hills where the trees had turned a hundred shades of red, gold, and orange. Or she might go to the Promise of Heaven which was usually deserted by daylight. Or she might.…
Illyra’s musings stopped short when she caught sight of a familiar figure passing under the West Gate. Dubro—and though she herself had told him to seek out Walegrin her heart began to pound. Once or twice—when she’d been a child and the blacksmith her protector, not her husband—she’d run away from him, but never in recent years. Until now. She scooted behind a water cart, crouching over her basket, pretending to examine its contents.
She waited, cried, and thought of Chabos who hadn’t known how to count to one hundred. When her tears had dried she decided it was safe. She headed in the direction she was now facing—to the back corner of the palace, past the ornate gate where priests and gods made their communion with temporal authority.
The palace stoneyard was here, ready for the next round of palatial repairs, and the huge water cisterns to sustain the inner fortress in times of siege. Though far from lost—she could still see the water cart—Illyra had entered unfamiliar territory and did not know the name of the little gate she discovered there. Or even if it was a deliberate gate and not one of Molin Torchholder’s bright ideas. It seemed, judging by the dust, to be the main conduit between the work gangs and the palace.
“Hey, sweetheart, got anything in there for me?” a half-naked roustabout called from farther down the path.
“No, just my own meal.”
“You’re sure? A pretty little piece like you shouldn’t be out here eating alone.…”
Illyra understood, then, what he had in mind. She blushed radiantly; he laughed heartily and she ran through the nameless gate into the jumbled red sandstones piled beyond it. Indignation got the better of her; she wished all manner of minor disasters upon the workman who had not recognized her as a happily married matron and implied propositions never suggested to a S’danzo seeress.
She ate the creamy cheese without tasting it. The fire of her shame burned inwardly now, illuminating the misunderstanding with which the world treated her. It wasn’t as if she asked for so much, Illyra reminded herself. It was pure selfishness and stubbornness that kept those who claimed to love her from understanding that her world—her promise of happiness—had ended when Lillis died. If they really loved her they would commiserate with her and cease their meaningless efforts to jolly her out of mourning.
Her life was a tragedy: a slow dirge relentlessly playing between Lillis’s death and her own. She’d become a martyr—and was comfortable with that identity.
“You should not scowl so—”
Illyra sent the basket flying and stared into the sun, unable to recognize the man who spoke so familiarly to her.
—“And you should be more careful where and how you make your personal storms.”
Not about to be scolded by a stranger—or anyone else, for that matter—Illyra was tempted to break her private vows and launch a full-fledged S’danzo curse in his direction. But something she, did not understand restrained her. She clambered down from her perch and gathered her scattered meal instead.
From this angle, away from the sun, he was easier to see but no more recognizable. Not that there weren’t a dozen incomprehensible languages spoken these days along the walls—but this one wasn’t a stoneworker. Even Tempus, silhouetted by a bloody setting sun, was not so timeless and out of place as this man seemed to be. Moreover, she could not See him or his shadow which boded ill when Sanctuary itself was remarkably free of magic.
“I’m a free woman,” she said petulantly, climbing onto a different stone where the light was better and she could look straight into his eyes.
“Not here you’re not.”
He was calm, not threatening; speaking simple facts as if there were something obvious she had overlooked. But what could be overlooked sitting on forgotten rubble with her back to the main path?
“Look down,” he suggested in a bemused and paternal manner.
Down. The dirt was red where years of storms had had their way with the sandstone. Nothing grew there. Nothing was buried there. She couldn’t See anything.
“Where you’re sitting. Where you’ve been sitting this past hour.”
Well, that. It was rubble, after all. These stones had been dressed and shaped into a building once, a long time ago. Not as if these were the only rocks around with little chips and bumps of some forgotten language on their sides Lords and frogs, it could be Rankene for all she would know, wind-blasted as it was and illiterate as she was.
She took a mean-tempered bite out of her fruit and jawed it pointedly. “So?”
“Are you blind, child?”
This stranger with his beaten, bronze-colored armor and his probing, dark eyes deserved nothing less than a S’danzo curse, Illyra decided. His stare was worse than a Beysib’s and his high-and-mighty attitude worse than that. He’d be less arrogant when the S’danzo were through with him. She wrapped her thoughts in the ancient forms, then dug deep in her memory to find the ritual words that would merge her desire with the Sight.
He sprang at her, though she prepared her curse in silence, and wrestled her from the stone with his hand locked firmly over her mouth.
“You fool,” he exclaimed, dropping her to the ground. “You blind, hopeless fool. How many times has Sanctuary been damned by petty curses uttered in ignorance by petty fools who don’t recognize sanctity when they see it?”
Illyra swept the dust from her skirt as she stood. He was too sincere in his protests, too secure to challenge directly. “Who are you to scold me?” she muttered, watching the ground. “Who made you the guardian of Sanctuary? You’re just another stranger come to work on the walls. It’s my home and I’ll send it to hell and back if I want to.”
“You’re more the fool than I thought, Illyra the Seeress.”
“All right, I don’t want to damn it to hell. I’d love to see a Sanctuary where flowers bloomed along the streets and honest people didn’t have to hide after sundown. I’d love to see a Sanctuary where men loved their wives, wives loved their children, and children had a chance to grow up with food in their bellies.
“Who wouldn’t want Sanctuary like that? But Sanctuary’s Sanctuary and it never changes.”
She raised her eyes to glower at him and to make him think better of whatever he had meant to say next.
“If you could bring yourself to take care of it, it might change into something better. Maybe even something you could love.”
“That’d be the day. Who are you, anyway?”
“Call me a shepherd.”
Illyra cocked her head at him. Whatever he was, the only sheep he saw were dead, cooked, and served to him on a platter. Some errant warrior, more likely. She noticed he’d left a horse drop-tied back on the path, and noticed that no one was coming or going on the path, either. It was not really a good idea to argue with one whose saddle and weapon belt bristled with a dozen modes of death.
“All right, I give Sanctuary my blessing—”
—“From the rock.”
She seated herself on the first stone and made a show of clearing her throat. “I give Sanctuary my blessing,” she repeated. A gust of wind carried dust into her eyes; that, and the backlighting sun made it impossible to see him clearly. “Let its people live in peace. Let its governors rule wisely. Let its walls be strong and its stewpots full.”
“There, is that more like it?” she demanded, squinting into the sun.
“You forgot love.”
“Right, husbands love wives; wives love children; children … oh, children love whoever they want.”
“It’s a start,” the unlikely shepherd confirmed. “Mighty trees and the like. Are you thirsty?”
He unslung a wineskin and offered it to her. Thinking he meant to embarrass her, Illyra took it. Not that many townswomen could aim the bladder and catch the stream without covering themselves with wine. She could. She’d learned to drink from a skin—and not from a borrowed vision, either. It was one of the very few things her father had taught her. The wine wasn’t half bad: a bit tannic, perhaps, but not local. She caught a last drop and handed the skin back to him, smiling like a well-fed cat.
“Thank you,” she said and noted with some satisfaction that she’d surprised him with her skill.
He tipped the wineskin up and maneuvered himself beneath it so his back was almost touching her and he, too, faced the sun. Illyra couldn’t imagine why he twisted around that way, when it was apt to make him miss his aim. Wine spurted past his ear, landing on the red stone.
“Watch what you’re doing,” she snapped, hastily lifting her skirt out of the way as she spoke.
But he squeezed the skin again and left a goodly stain across the worn inscription before adjusting his arms and getting a decent mouthful of wine. Odd that a warrior, or a shepherd for that matter, would be so clumsy with the wine. Hard, even, to believe it had been an accident especially when she caught him looking back at her and grinning.
“Out of practice,” he said, and she did not believe him at all.
“I’d best be leaving. It’s getting late. I live …”
Illyra hesitated and thought better of telling him where she lived, not that her heart believed it would help her if this stranger took it into his head to pay her and Dubro a visit. She slid carefully from the stone, avoiding him as much as the wine, and put the substantial remains of her lunch in the shawl-sling. It seemed prudent to back away from the stone. He was still grinning when her heel touched the path, then he laughed and she shot through the gate.
In truth it wasn’t that late, barely past midafternoon, and she hadn’t intended to return to the Bazaar before sundown. The day was still pleasantly warm, and there wouldn’t be many more like this until the next spring. She might still wander along the General’s Road and headed that way—back through the forecourt and along the Governor’s Walk.
Haakon the vendor was prowling his afternoon route, singing a song of nutmeats and pastry. Despite the food she’d eaten and the food she carried, they made her mouth water.
“Copper bit,” the vendor said when she started to approach him, then, when he finally recognized her, added in a much softer voice, “for two.”
Illyra smiled and gave him the battered coin she’d received in the morning. Because she’d bought two, he wrapped the second one in a scrap of translucent parchment and tucked it into the folds of her shawl.
“Delicious,” she confirmed, biting into the sweet and savory confection.
“Best to share.”
He meant to share with Dubro but the face that came into her mind was Suyan. She wondered if the wet nurse had ever even tasted one of these uptown luxuries. Not likely. Suyan claimed she had grown up Downwind, though Walegrin had found her in a Shambles house. Illyra imagined the look on Suyan’s face when she bit through the still-warm pastry shell to the nutmeats within. She changed direction and hurried along the street to the Bazaar.
The forge was empty but before Illyra could become concerned she heard Trevya crying and ran the last little way.
“I brought you a pastry,” she announced as she pushed through the curtain.
Suyan smiled but it was almost lost amid her unsuccessful efforts to quiet the infant.
“Here, I’ll hold her. They really taste best when they’re warm.”
She picked the child up and found, not surprisingly, that she fit snugly into the crook of her arm and that she remembered how to rock her arms a bit and wiggle a finger or two as a distraction. And as Illyra’s fingers were shiny with butter and nutmeats, Trevya found them fascinating. She pulled them into her mouth and sucked contentedly. Illyra felt the sharp ridge of the tooth that had caused this latest round of wailing.
“She’s getting her milk teeth.”
Suyan gulped a mouthful of pastry. “Not milk teeth, I’ll warrant?” Another of her lilting questions, but this one came with a furtive smile.
“Not milk teeth then. She’ll soon be ready for gruel and a bit of porridge in the morning. I used to like to make porridge—especially in winter.”
The happiness in Suyan’s face wavered. Illyra could almost see her thinking of where she’d been before they’d brought her to the forge.
“We’ll still need someone to take care of her. I’m S’danzo, not …” Illyra hesitated, wondering why she’d been about to say she wasn’t Trevya’s mother. Neither was Suyan, for that matter. And other S’danzo women had children underfoot all the time. “Well, Trevya should have someone watching her all the time,” she decided after a puzzling moment. “It’s dangerous here, with the forge. Not like some other places where the worst that could happen is a bumped knee.”
The tension left Suyan in a great sigh. She ate the rest of her pastry but left the baby in Illyra’s arms. They talked then, in the afternoon light, as they had never talked before, though not about anything of importance. They talked about the foods Dubro liked, and the ones he didn’t and the bolts of brightly colored cloth that had just arrived in a caravan from Croy; and whether the journeyman had a wife in his future.
Illyra stole a look at the future, then shook her head. “I can’t See a thing,” she murmured and remembered what she had said out on the rock. For a heartbeat her blood went cold. He had tricked her. That strange man who was not a shepherd had tricked her into casting an unprecedented curse over Sanctuary: a S’danzo blessing. Not that there was such a thing as a S’danzo blessing. “Everyone’s a child, one way or another—”
—“I didn’t hear you?”
Suyan leaned closer but Illyra did not repeat herself. She was, after all, only one S’danzo and Sanctuary was Sanctuary and not likely to change very much no matter what she did. But she would have to, if she ever saw him again, thank the shepherd for setting her free, at least.
HOMECOMING
Andrew Offutt
Some one is always awake in Sanctuary … especially when others are sleeping.
—Universal absolute
When she saw that he had wakened, she returned to the bed, mostly dressed but not quite. She bent down, exotically pale hair streaming long, to brush the tip of his nose with her lips.
“We fell asleep,” she told him. “I’ve got to go! It’s terribly late.”
Lazily, muzzily, he lifted a hand to try to capture a dangling lobe of her chest as she bent. She straightened swiftly with a little chuckle and finished closing her latch-front tunic.
“Awww,” he began, lazy-muzzy, and, the sound slid off into a yawn.
She started for the door. He saw her pause, lift a hand to her temple, up under the newly silvered hair she had combed partially free of the tangles the two of them had put in it. She turned back. Moonlight admitted by the open window let him see that she was frowning.
“My earrings,” she murmured, hurrying back to the little table beside the bed.
A moment later: “Darling? Didn’t I put my earrings right here? They’re—they’re gone!”
“Muss’ve dropped ’em on th’ floor,” he said without concern, and yawned again.
Watching her, smiling a little, remembering. Watching her go to her knees beside the bed in her search was fun, and he entertained a little fantasy about that.
