The Seekers Of Fire Part 13

Ber ... n.o.ble peers ... active ... generous ... production ... income ... sustainment ... order ... Mierenthia. Desmond had somehow arranged his speech around these words, so that if the speech had been a fence, these words would have been the poles, the rest giving the impression of being no more than unimportant filling. Or perhaps Rianor perceived it like this because of the d.a.m.n, thought-scattering headache. He had to make a conscious effort to retain clarity of thought ...

But then, how many of these people ever had clarity of thought? Desmond used this. Desmond knew how people thought, and dealing with people was his pride and pa.s.sion. He would know how exactly to twist words and concepts to say something while in the minds of his less smart adversaries a concept formed of something else. As for the manipulators on the other side, who were perhaps not susceptible to this, for they used it themselves, he could still give them a message and enjoy sparring with them.

"I thank you, too, First Counselor of Qynnsent." the Ber woman replied. "We appreciate your contributions."

They understood each other very well. "Mierenthia and you Bers depend on Houses' money and production," Desmond had told her, "and our House is an important one for that." "Sustainment and order" might have referred to this and the Houses' Aetarx as well, although Desmond would never mention the Aetarx in public. "It is you who rule, but you also depend on us n.o.bles," Desmond had said, making sure that their fellow n.o.bles, mindless or not, understood and remembered this. He had, of course, also stressed how generous House Qynnsent itself was, or, more accurately, reminded all of Qynnsent's influence, and that a disturbance in Qynnsent would also mean a disturbance in a part of Balkaene, and thus in Mierenthia's food production.

Mathilda, Qynnsent's Lady-in-residence in Balkaene, former First Counselor, and Desmond's mother, had in the past tried to teach Rianor the specific nuances of this "understanding" that a lord should exercise in dealing with Bers and fellow n.o.bles. Later, Desmond had tried to teach him himself. Rianor had not learned, not because he could not but because he did not want to. All these hinted, unsaid, and intentionally misinterpreted wordsa"all these liesa"were redundant. People should either express themselves clearly, or not talk at all; should either think for themselves, or let someone else do the thinking and obey him. You should not have to twist your mind and chew your thoughts so that you could spit them maimed enough for others to swallow them.

Science, on the other hand, was clean. The most complex mechanism could be split into less complex parts, at least in theory if not in practice, and you could learn the rules of how those worked together because there were clean rules. You could sometimes use these rules to make something useful.

Mechanisms were usefula"but people were not useful at all. Rianor shifted his eyes away from Desmond and the Ber woman, and suddenly saw a mirror image of his contempt on another face. It was the face of a girl, a young woman. It wore large, dark eyes, a fine nose and a slightly open, delicately curved mouth. It also wore the black hood of a Ber.

She slid the hood down her hair just as she met his eyes, ignoring the whisper of the red-robed Ber man beside her. It was wavy hair, brown but for the reddish tint that spread through it when she tossed it, catching the square's artificial light. Then she was not looking at Rianor any more, but he had the feeling that it was not because she did not dare withstand his gaze.

Then he knew who she was, and so did Donald of Waltraud. The oaf stumbled out from somewhere amidst the crowd, red-faced, and cried out, "Merley!"

In a moment, the crowd forgot all about Rianor and Qynnsent. Donald of Waltraud was crying, tears running silently down his suddenly not-so-stupid-looking face, and High Lord Emery of Waltraud had appeared on the edge of the crowd, standing silently in half-shadow, a muscle trembling on his cheek. He did not seem to notice that his wife had fainted. Everybody else was silent, as if they all had taken a collective breath and time had stopped before they could exhale again.

The Ber girl stood still, the Ber man's hand on her elbow. Then she snapped her elbow free and rushed towards Donald. Half of the lanterns flickered, before the red-robed man raised a hand. Then, for a moment, all lanterns flared and the square was almost too bright to bear. People blinked and scowled and their eyes watered, the world too blurred for them to see a miniature flying blade.

Perhaps because of his increased sensitivity to thrown blades and to Bers tonight, Rianor saw it. It came from the group of yellow-robed Bers behind the red-robed man, and it pierced the girl's back before she could reach her brother. She did not fall, but stumbled, the wildness in her eyes suddenly extinguished into a bland, unfocused expression.

"Blessed be, lord Donald of Waltraud," she uttered a standard, unemotional Ber acknowledgement of a n.o.ble, and Rianor felt almost sorry for the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, as she turned her back to him and slowly walked away.

Then the red-robed Ber woman was talking again, and more Bers had inserted themselves amidst the crowd, urging all to the Temple and supposed warmth and light.

She halted talking for a second when she met Rianor's gaze. Suddenly, Rianor realized that she, too, was tired. She bore herself like a woman of iron still, but a deep wrinkle cut her forehead and shadows framed her eyes. She narrowed these eyes as he made a step towards her, and almost backed away from him. It almost did not show, but she was not comfortable with Rianor at all, even though he had let her and Desmond's little theater go on and not said a word.

"We shall see each other again, my lady," he said softly, almost a promise.

She raised a hand, as if to bless or dismiss him ... and they both watched the pretty fire ball in the hand fade away. She spread her fingers, as if it had been intentional, and perhaps no one else noticed, but Rianor was certain that he saw a flash of fear on her face.

"Yes, High Lord, I believe we shall," she whispered. "Blessed be," she added as an afterthought before she turned her back to him and walked regally away.

Was he the sole reason for her fear, or was it mostly because of the scene with the Waltrauds? He would definitely find out and use the knowledge. And d.a.m.n the Waltrauds. Until now, the situation of a n.o.ble turned Ber seemed to have happened only in semi-legends. And now a Waltraud, just in time for a day of conflicts with both Waltrauds and Bers. He had to summon a Qynnsent Council as soon as tomorrow.

Rianor nodded to Desmond, then reached out to support his First Counselor, who had paled and wavered when trying to walk on his left leg. Rianor's own ribs hurt. Then, amidst the commotion, someone suddenly supported him. "M'lord." Parr the stable boy was smiling at him, a cloaked, hooded figure that moments ago had been just a spot in the crowd. Now that Rianor had time to notice such things, he remembered that figure. It was Parr who had given him the dagger earlier, not Desmond.

"Beauty and Star are fine, m'lord, friends are guarding 'em. All them other horses, too. Two b.l.o.o.d.y thugs tried to steal Nelliea"that's another horsea"but we beat them, m'lord. We heard shouting from here, too, so I came to see what was happeninga"to see if you were all right, m'lord." He looked at Rianor admiringly. "I saw how you jumped people through the window, m'lord. You're good."

A minute later, the boy had sped to get the horses, and Rianor and Desmond were walking to the street to wait for the carriage. Desmond was limping and was staring somewhere in the night.

"Tell me, Rianor, do you see a tendency in yourself to aggravate the people who matter, and somehow earn the love of some who may not matter at all?"

Rianor was too tired to endure and decipher Desmond's hints, and he did not want a life discussion with him, of all people.

"I cannot answer you before we have aligned each other's criteria for mattering," he replied with a tone that meant any further attempts for conversation was at the attempter's own risk.

And perhaps, after all, no people matter whatsoever.

He exiled the thought to the small corner of his mind where he kept the old Mentor from yesterday. Still, it kept poking at the corner's wall all the time while he drove the carriage to Qynnsent (Parr did not yet have the right to drive so far, and did not know the way) through a deceptively quiet Mierber.

He did not want that thought. It was just an angry reaction to the events of the day, wasn't it? But it stayed there even as he tried to calm himself by thinking about Science, and eerily, there was a connection in that.

He had started doing Science in order to learn about life. What if peoplea"the human speciesa"were not the right way to approach life?

Chapter 7: Inner Sanctum.

Linden

Night 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705 The torrent had turned into a drizzle while Linden and Master Keitaro were talking. Now, even the drizzle was no more, and the only raindrops were those that the wind shed from the creaking branches. Back in her suite, Linden peeled the nightdress and socks from her skin and wrapped herself into a robe. The sky was clear now. Both moons were peeking through the open windows, their bright light paling that of the sleep candles and drawing twisted shapes on the floor.

Linden paced, ignoring the moonlight shapes, her feet instead tracing the silver-threaded patterns weaved into the carpet itself. She halted when she realized what she was doing, suddenly uneasy even with interweaving cloth threads. She had not danced in the garden, after all. Old Master Keitaro had said that his dancing was the beginning and middle of a path, but it seemed a path ruled by storms and feet that moved unbidden. If Linden walked or danced, she would walk or dance where she chose.

The old man had simply smiled at her when she told him.

She trod her own path from the suite's bedroom to the living room now, every step purposeful and focused. The carpet was simply dark-green there, with no patterns. Perhaps even the curtains hid no mori.

Wretch it, why could she not just sleep? Morning would come, sooner or later, and would take the moonlight and shadows away. Nights were treacherous, everyone knew, and darkness was not for wanderers. Fire was weaker at night, Mentors said. Even though street lights and sleep candles protected the quintessences of the sleeping from the Lost Ones lurking without, their light was too weak for the comfort of the wakeful.

Linden would have ignored the Mentors' words, a few days ago. Now she was not so sure. She jumped as a draft from the bedroom windows slammed the door behind her shut. Then, staring at the Qynnsent banner above the opposite door, she jumped againa"and againa"until she was certain that her eyes were not deceiving her. Then, she learned to see the same without jumping, by squinting each eye inwards towards the other one until she almost saw double.

The Qynnsent banner in her suite was, like those in the corridor outside, an oval piece of tapestry, perhaps half a meter tall and a meter wide. The color of the background was silver, which was one of Qynnsent's colors. The other Qynnsent color, dark green, was represented in the crowns of the two stalwart trees, oaks perhaps, that leaned somewhat towards each other. The left branches of the right tree joined with the right branches of the left one, forming a spot of uninterrupted green color big enough to fit a silver embroidered "Qynnsent." Then, beneath the branches and the name of the House, between the tree trunks, there was a leaping dog.

It was that dog that looked strange. The tree trunks were brown and, like the tree-crowns and the House name, conspicuous over their respective backgrounds. The dog, however, was dark gray and white, the colors too faint and indistinguishable over the Qynnsent silver. It was as if the dog were leaping through water or mist--as if the dog were not fully here.

And if she squinted her eyes, it was not even a dog any more. Its muzzle was longer and its body smoother. Gone was the dog's s.h.a.ggy fur and even, almost, the dog's legs and tail. She could not see the front legs at all, and the rear ones and the tail seemed to extend back like human legs squeezed tightly together everywhere but at the feeta"which were spread widely apart. She had never seen such an animal, even in pictures, and yet somehow her aberrant mind knew that it must be true, that somewhere it existed.

Linden sighed, but this time it was a sigh of relief. Morning was still a long time away, but this unknown creaturea"this mysterya"could help her. Only now did she realize how poor and empty the vast, luxurious suite equipped with so many items of comfort, had indeed been to her. She was alone in it, with no books or tools. She had been lonely and frightened, with nothing to occupy her mind but its own thoughts. Now, at least, she had something to do.

Linden took her quill and an empty notebook from the shelf of notebooks that Nan had said were now hers. Her coat was soaked, and she could not roam Qynnsent in just a robe, so she put on the dress that Nan had earlier brought to her. It was a silk dress in the Qynnsent colors. It was soft and flowing, and it caressed her body like no clothes had done before. Absentmindedly, Linden admired it, and absentmindedly she ate a slice of bread to appease her growling stomach, but her mind was already somewhere else.

Banners and animals. Linden was used to reading or sketching by the light of just a sleep candle in her old home, so she had no problem doing the same by the light of the many sleep candles in her new one. She sketched the unfamiliar animal as exactly as she could, then inserted the notebook under her arm and stood up. By morning, she should have learned if any of the banners in the corridors changed like hers, and if they did, what their animals were.

Linden

Night 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705 An hour later, Linden knew that some banners were like hers, while in others the dog stayed the same no matter how she looked at it. She drew a map of their locations as she walked, never wandering aimlessly, never stopping to linger, her mind focused on the task at hand. It felt good to be herself again, and not someone who would dash and dance on an impulse only.

Even the night seemed less threatening now. She had sketched both the dog and the strange animal several times, each time copying a different banner. Both animals remained consistent throughout banners. She was in the eastern part of the House now, and high, too, having climbed stairs several times. There were more changeling banners here than closer to her suite.

Then, suddenly, she stood before a door made of wood, and that disturbed her, especially now that she had been out with the trees. Few things were ever made of wood in Mierber, for even if the Bers would allow the occasional ceiling, table, or bookcase, the killing of trees was very strictly controlled. Mister Podd had said that only Bers, Mentors, wretches, and sometimes peasants could enter the forests. However, as he often did with sensitive topics, he had not answered Linden's clarifying questions.

The door was small and inconspicuous, and the banner over it was not clean and sharp-colored like the rest, but wrinkled and stained. The stain was old and pale, as if someone had tried to wash it but a small part of it had clung to the cloth and stayed. It was ... dirty. She did not know if trees bled when killed, but if they did, dried tree blood must look like that.

You poor little dead tree. Couldn't they simply have used metal? Gingerly, she reached out and touched the door with a palm.

Silently, the door flung open, and Linden saw a faintly-lit room beyond it.

All right. She had not touched a handle at all; the door was not supposed to have opened. She was intrigued now, but she was not going to stumble inside what reeked of Magic like a mindless fool.

On the other hand, did wooden doors work on the same principle as metal ones? Perhaps a wooden door could be opened with just the brush of a palm with no Magic at all; or perhaps such a door would not need a handle to operate an inclined plane latch mechanism, like a metal door did. Rianor's note had said that she was free to explore Qynnsent. Perhaps that meant that it was safe, that she could take a look.

There seemed to be no one in the gloomy circular room beyond to be disturbed by her, and even though the door still repulsed her, what use was it to avoid it now that the tree was already dead? Linden sighed and made herself touch the door again. Not learning about a new, perhaps fascinating mechanism would not bring the tree back.

Focusing on that thoughta"on the mechanisma"seemed to push some of the tension away. Linden examined the door from the outside, finding no latch, then ignored her uneasiness and made a step forward.

Behind her, the door clicked as if there were a latch nowa"as if a latch had always been there but had decided to hide from her and was now laughing at her. The tension grew between Linden's stomach and heart, and then it started pouring up, growing, suffocating her.

No. She felt the chilly roughness of stone as her body crumpled to the floor; heard the sound of her new silk dress tearing as she tried to drag herself up. It was no use; she could not breathe. She clutched her throat and wheezed and choked, but all she seemed to achieve was fight the floor, and stone was stronger than her, and older.

As old as the mountain from whose heart heedless, arrogant beings wrenched it away, in a world with one blue moon and one yellow ...

She should not fight, said the feeble thought that tried to make way to her muddled mind. She had seen sick people writhe like that, and fighting never helped, but the breathing might stabilize if she lay down calmly.

But she was not a healer; she did not know if it would for certain. Mechanisms were so much easier to learn than breathing things. She coughed, her tongue overwhelmed by the taste of something foul.

So how do you know that mechanisms do not breathe? You split mechanisms in parts, but when you stare at parts for too long, you lose sight of what is between them.

Was that an illusion, or a mere thought? Whatever it was, she had managed to take a new breath while thinking it.

Then she managed to crawl a bit, too. Towards the door that ... was not there any longer.

No mechanism could explain that. Linden coughed again, running her hands against the bare and gray stone wall. She had searched for a mechanism, and she had been so focused on finding a mechanism that she had not realized that, if a mechanism there were at all, it was the mechanism of a trap.

Something did seem to laugh now, somewhere far away.

She almost hit the wall with a fist. That thing, whatever it was, had used her urge to always think and seek an explanation to manipulate her! How did it dare do this to her! Thinking and searching for explanations was what smart people did, not those easily manipulated. Ignorance, not thinking, was what brought harm! Ignorance made people kneel and drag buckets; it trapped them inside lives that no one who thought for herself or himself would have ever chosen. Thinking, searching, and knowing should free you rather than imprison you! How did it dare try this on her, who was thinking, smart, and special!

So what? She had been special before, too, long ago when the crowd had come in the night. She had not known about mechanisms then, but she had known about the Sun, moons, herbs, and soila"and theya"they had been dumb, rowdy, useless human peasants who knew nothing at all.

She was special, but still the flames licked the cottage's straw roof, and ropes cut her bruised flesh, torn clothes, and the trunk of the old pine where she was tied, while her old, limp dog and little kitten screamed trapped inside.

Almost, Linden could not breathe again, and she could not cry at all. Crying would make her body weaker and then she would not be able to resist the stone floor. Its chill would penetrate her fully, and her quintessence would be freezing little by little, until she was no more.

Yes. Stone. She took a slow, careful breath, then crawled towards the wall until she could turn and lean her back on it. Stone. And old, stagnant air and chill, not the rough bark of a green pine tree and the smoke of a burning cottage.

I am not her!

But did that really matter? Her mouth still tasted of the bitter ashes the wind had drifted from that woman's roof, even though she had never seen or touched flames and ashes in her own life.

Stone floor. Room. Here and now. Focus on here and now. Cold. Stone. Here and now she could be chilled to death, but that seemed almost attractive compared to going back into that memory.

Something p.r.i.c.ked her hip. It was the quill she had been carrying before falling, the notebook and ink bottle lying a few steps beyond it. She stared at them, her mind chilled and slow.

The quill had been hers for three years now; it had been Eileen's gift for her fifteenth birthday. It had been in one of Linden's pockets all through the Healer's Pa.s.sage, and she had been much relieved to see that it had not been lost. It was thinner and preciser (and p.r.i.c.klier!) than a regular quill at the base, but upwards it flared prettily in bright red and yellow. Eily had proudly dyed it herself, never mind that a spot of red dye had found its way to her nose in the process.

Linden smiled, her cold, stiff fingers stroking the quill's soft, warm fluff. The dye on Eily's nose had withstood washing for fifteen days, so Linden had finally dyed her own nose yellow in solidarity. It would not do to have her little sister cry because some mean children called her nose "unique," but with both noses dyed, it all became a game. Eily could easily imagine that she and her Lind were both strange and pretty creatures exiled from a fairytale.

Eily cried when Mom and Dad sent her to spend the winter with Grandma and Grandpa in the Sunset Lands, although she loved both her grandparents and the place vehemently.

"I want to go with you three!" she shouted, stomping her feet. "Why can't I stay, and why can't you come? This is ridiculous!"

It was. Linden was beyond the age of stomping feet, and she had always been more thoughtful than outwardly aggressive. So she just hugged Eily silently and wiped her sister's tears, but inside her the thoughts had grown cutting edges. Mom and Dad were sending the younger child away because they both thought the fire troubles were more serious than the Bers would have people think, and far in the Sunset Lands Eily would be safer.

Rockville, where Grandma and Grandpa lived, was a small village with a single firewell. In the Northwest wells still mostly worked, and the two Bers who took care of the Rockville area were not hidden like those in Mierber; they were almost friendly. Linden could not go; she had to stay for the Day of the Master and her Judgement.

Linden had wanted to stay, actually, for she hoped to join the Science Guild, but it was one thing to want to stay, and quite another to be forced to do it without Eily.

Would she have defied the Ber later, if she had not seen Eily sent away for fear of Bers first? Maybe. But perhaps saying goodbye to her darling sister was what had made the anger she had been ama.s.sing for years finally erupt. She could not take obedience and surrender any longer!

She would not take it now, either. Linden started crawling towards the notebook and ink bottle. She would get them, then she would carefully try to stand up, without tearing her dress further. It was such a beautiful lady's dress.

It might be a lady's dress, but you are not a lady. Or do you really think you have become one only because you ran away with a lord?

She had run away with a lord, long ago, too.

The wind had been wild and exhilarating as they drove, one of his hands on the reins and the other arm around her waist, their eyes bathing in the infinite horizon. Come the night, however, he stopped the carriage and the tired, sweaty horses not at the castle but at a common inn. He snapped at her when she asked why, and his kiss was not gentle ...

"I am not her, either!"

But she was. All at the same time, she was a peasant, a lady, a city woman, a servant, and a witcha"and she was others, too, some of them creatures of streams, lakes, and forests. She was human women who were special, who watched the sky at night and filled it with their dreams, who sought love, knew mechanisms, made books and music, and dared approach forests. And she was a samodiva, an element, one with the wild wind and rain; she knew nothing about humans and did not carea"until a human man tried to make her his and gave her a grain of alien awareness.

They were all inside her, drawing images inside her mind, of dreams but mostly of sadness, fear, and fury. Somehow each image Linden saw implied of a special woman's doleful fate, until she could carry these images no morea"until all she wanted was to curl into a ball on the cold stone floor, close her eyes, and dream herself into oblivion.

No. This is not all I want. This is what you want, whoevera"whatever you are. She had crawled to the ink bottle and notebook and now felt the stiff paper in her hands. Paper was such a useful thing; she had often wondered where paper came from. The books never said.

Yes, she had wondered. She, Linden. That was her own thought, the thought of one who always wanted to know, who always sought a way. This person would not be swayed by fear and doleful-fate images.