Son of Avonar Read online

  I yanked open the bed-curtains and saw him standing shirtless by the washing cabinet, dabbing at his side. “Seri! Gods, I’m sorry. . . .” He tried to hide it from me with a ripped and bloody towel. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “And did you think to sneak away again once you’d ruined all my towels?” I said, pulling his hands away to see a long, blood-crusted gash in his side. Ugly and painful, but not too deep at least.

  “I just wanted to clean up a bit before you saw. You mustn’t worry.”

  I motioned him to a chair, lit a lamp, and brought towels, a healing salve, and a linen bandage I kept in a drawer, and then set to cleaning the wound myself. “Not worry? Better ask me not to breathe. The law of Leire is—Stars of night, Karon, you were a prisoner!” I held his hand up to the light, my skin crawling at seeing the rope burns on his wrists.

  “This was thieves, not the law. They saw my heavy cloak and my decent horse and thought I might fetch a good ransom. It was quite clear there was nothing extraordinary about my skill in avoiding them,” he said, grimacing as I tightened the bandage about his middle. “And since I can’t heal myself, they had no cause to suspect me of anything else.”

  “And how did you get away?”

  “Well, they had to sleep, and I was able to conjure myself out of their ropes, leaving them only the most convincing evidence that I’d got hold of a knife and cut myself free.” He stroked my hair. “It could happen to any traveler at any time, you know. I was just able to get out of it easier.”

  I jerked my head away from his hand and dumped the bloody water into the waste jar. “You live in Leire, not Valleor. You must wear a sword from now on,” I said. “No Leiran noble would ever walk the street without a weapon, much less travel that way. You might as well ride naked.”

  “I cannot.”

  I gaped at him uncomprehending. “Cannot . . .” My father and mother, my brother, everyone I knew, both male and female, and I, too, lived by the sword. I’d known how to wield a blade since I was ten, prepared to use any weapon to defend myself and those I loved. The brocade knife sheath strapped to my thigh was never empty. “Well, then”—I scarcely knew what to say—“you don’t have to use it, only look as if you are capable.”

  “Oh, I’m quite capable. I was trained just as any youth. But I gave up carrying a sword when I realized I could never use it. I’m a Healer, Seri. How could I?”

  I could think of several points of debate, but I had already learned that Karon’s deepest-held beliefs were immune to reasoned argument. “There lives no more stubborn beast than a man of conviction,” Martin had once told me. Karon took me in his arms, and we said no more about it, but I never again rested easy when he was away.

  As the months passed, Karon taught me more of sorcery and the life of the J’Ettanne in Avonar. There was no day he could remember, he told me, when he could not do things I would call magic: to light a candle with the brush of his mind, to make a rose bloom from a dormant shrub, to call a bird to sit on his hand. And on every one of those days he knew he could be burned for it. It was as if I had grown up knowing I could be executed because my heart was beating.

  In Karon’s youth, several hundred of the J’Ettanne had lived in Avonar. They had learned through hard generations how to live a dual life, to suppress their talent until they were in safety or to use it so subtly that no one would ever know. They were merciless with their children, he said, for it was the only way to keep them safe. Whenever a sorcerer was taken, seven of the J’Ettanne, always two of them children, would stand in the commard of Montevial or the Imperial Amphitheater in Vanesta and watch while their friend or kinsman burned—so they would never forget.

  But the children were also taught the skills and the love of life that were bound up with their heritage. Never did they deny who they were or reject the difficult course laid out for them. Never was there any suggestion that they forsake their Two Tenets and revert to the practices of their foolish ancestors. Many J’Ettanne became quite facile at using their talents. The ordinary citizens of Avonar never suspected that the reputation of their city for having the most exceptionally beautiful gardens and fountains and the most skilled craftsmen in all of Valleor rested in large part on the community of sorcerers that lived among them.

  “Of course, our life was happy,” Karon told me one evening as we worked in our own tiny garden, tucked away behind the townhouse. “Quite happy. There were always ‘aunts and uncles’ to care for you and to listen when you were troubled. And we weren’t isolated from the rest of the children in the city. We couldn’t be or it would be noticed. We just learned how to manage it.”

  “Could everyone do the same things you do? Heal, I mean. Tame birds. Make light.”

  “Basic things, yes, like the candles and the birds. But it wasn’t until age sixteen or so that your primary talent would manifest itself. A bit terrifying when it happened. You would go to sleep as a modestly capable boy or girl, plagued with the normal confusions of being neither child nor adult, and then awaken the next day as a Gardener or a Builder or a Metalwright or a Healer. There were those who could melt silver without fire and shape it into marvelous creations with only their minds. There were the Speakers—not many, as truth-telling was always a rare gift—and there were the Word Winders and the Singers. My mother was a Singer. When she sang, the image of her words was brought to life right in the room with you, not just in your mind, but a shimmering vision in the air before you, alive with color and motion. When she sang you to sleep, you would dream her songs.”

  I shoved a stick-like tree into the hole Karon had dug and wished I had some magic to make it grow faster, so that it would shade this corner of my garden before I had white hair. Some days, my own life felt truly useless. “What of you then?” I asked, pounding the dirt about the tree to hold it straight. “When did you discover you were a Healer?”

  “I was seventeen. All that summer I had lived with the growing fear that I had no talent beyond the ordinary, that the Way would never be laid down for me. On rare occasion that would happen. No one knew why. One day my brother Christophe and I were out tramping in the mountains. He was just thirteen and very much determined to show he was my equal in climbing. We were hoping to find a new route to the top of Mount Karylis that day, but had begun to think it impossible. Then Christophe found a narrow chimney that looked to reach a ledge we’d been trying for, and before I could discourage him, he was up it. He fell, and . . . well, the details aren’t important. He landed on a rock and caved in his chest. There was no one to help—no one within two hours’ walk.”

  Karon’s attention drifted into the realm of story and memory that was always as vivid as present daylight for him. “I had watched J’Ettanni Healers perform the blood-rite and prayed for years that whatever my gift, it would not be that one. But on that day my desire was reversed, and I had no choice but to try. Otherwise Christophe was dead and would cross the Verges long before I could get him home. Our people had many theories on how specific talents developed; perhaps my gift might have been different if my need had not been so great. I did what I had to do, holding Christophe close to me so the blood would mingle as it must and taking myself into him so I could put right what had been damaged. More than half a day it took me.” He laughed and squeezed my hand, returning from his journey of remembrance. “I was not very skilled and caused both of us more grief than was necessary. That scar is my constant inducement to humility.”

  When I asked him, he showed me the long, ragged white mark that had been his first.

  “Can you remember them all?” I ran my fingers over the tracery of white that criss-crossed his left arm. Hundreds of scars.

  “Every one. You cannot forget. The sense of completion . . . of purpose . . . of wholeness . . . is indescribable. There’s been nothing in my life to compare to it . . . until I met you.”

  And then were both talking and gardening interrupted for a while.

  Later, as we walked into the house in
the moonlight, I asked him what he meant by “crossing the Verges.” He wrinkled his brow and said, “Nothing in Leiran cosmology corresponds to the concept. The J’Ettanne call the place where souls reside after death L’Tiere, the ‘following life.’ We know nothing of its nature, but we believe that between the life that we know and L’Tiere, there exists a boundary which the living cannot cross and from which there is no return. After death there is a time—from a few moments to a few hours—when the soul has not yet crossed this boundary and can be returned to the body. It’s why time is so critical to a Healer. With skill and effort and luck and the gift I have been given, I can return one who is dead to life again, but only if the soul has not yet crossed.”

  I was fascinated by all this, but uncomfortable, too. Death was rarely a topic of discussion in Leiran society. Warriors lived forever in legend and story, of course, and the Holy Twins would inscribe their names on their lists of heroes when we recounted their noble deeds in temple rites. And the families who nurtured such heroes shared in this immortality, as Mana shared in the glory of the First God Arot. Otherwise, Leiran gods had no use for the dead. Living a life of honor was what was important.

  “It was not so very different in Avonar,” Karon said, when I mentioned my discomfort. “We had a somewhat more optimistic view of whatever is to come, but Healers were never the first ones that came to mind when one was making a guest list. Reminders of mortality are never welcome.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “I suppose now you’ll want to banish me to the kitchens when you entertain.”

  “I’d already planned it so. It was your conversation that attracted me, you know, and I’m hesitant to put your social graces on display lest another woman be singed by the same flame!”

  As Karon flourished in his more ordinary profession, I spent more and more time with him at the antiquities collection. Here we had no arguments, but reveled in the unending variety of human creativity. Among the bins and boxes we found man-high statues of Kerotean marble and tiny fetishes of wood and ivory from cultures so primitive that nothing at all was known of them. There were Vallorean tapestries, illuminated manuscripts, helmets and armor and swords of a thousand varieties, maps and glassware, jewelry and silverwork, rugs woven of the hair from exotic beasts. Most of these articles had been stuffed into musty vaults in the royal treasuries with no regard for their fragile nature. Armor was thrown on top of crumbling manuscripts, paintings laid face down, ivory and jade statuary left where dampness had made stagnant pools.

  Shortly after assuming his post, Karon had several large, well-aired workrooms set aside for his use. He had his small staff of assistants bring each item to the workrooms, so it could be judged, and then it would either be disposed of or sent to be cleaned, repaired, and packed away more carefully.

  Our delight was to find an article that was unmarked and unknown and to unravel the mysteries of its origin. We would seek some idea of its history from the pieces stored alongside it. Then we would attempt to trace the materials, the paint, the stone, the paper, the ink, the yarn. Karon would search the royal libraries for references to anything similar or write letters to scholars or collectors who might have information. If we were still lacking information, I might take the piece to the market, and inquire of visiting merchants or travelers if they had ever seen such a thing.

  Evard’s lord high chamberlain heard of the new commissioner’s work and sent his secretary to ask if there might be articles suitable for display in the palace. Evidently Evard had decided that some ornamentation might better suit his role as the supreme monarch of the civilized world. Perhaps his decision was connected with the rumors that the young queen considered Leirans, including her husband, to be barbarians. And so, when we found a particularly fine piece, I would write a card describing it, pack the card with the vase or statue or tapestry, and send them to the chamberlain with the commissioner’s compliments and a recommendation as to the object’s placement and method of display.

  The only activity I avoided was accompanying Karon down into the vaults. I blamed my deep-rooted horror of dark, confined spaces on Tomas. Once when I was but five or six years old, I was playing hide and seek with Tomas and two of his friends through the dank cellars and musty storerooms of Comigor. Tomas decided it would be a great joke to abandon the game without telling me. He and his friends took themselves off riding, not knowing that the ancient cupboard I had discovered deep in the darkest cellar had a faulty latch and that I could not free myself. When I failed to come to supper in the nursery, the governess assumed I was out riding, too. Only when the boys returned at nightfall did the alarm go out.

  It was two days until they found me, pale and terrified and perfectly quiet, huddled in the pitch-blackness of the cramped old cabinet. I had been afraid to cry out when I heard the searchers, for our old nurse had always told us that there were demons in the dark who would devour crying children to feed their sorceries. I had decided it would be better to starve than to risk such an awful fate. Years passed before I could sleep without a lamp left burning, and the fear of confinement had never left me.

  The first time Karon took me into the vaults, eager to share the wonders of his treasury, I convinced myself that my childish megrims would surely be banished now I was a married woman. But as luck would have it, halfway down the ancient stairway our lamp ran out of oil, and it took no extraordinary talent for Karon to discover my terror. I almost tore the sleeve off his coat. In an instant, without regard for the risk, he conjured a light for me—a soft white glow emanating from his hand that faded only when he led me into the daylight and wrapped his arms about me to calm my shaking.

  “Ah, love, you need never fear the demons again,” he said, after I’d told him the tale. “Is it not true that you have married one of them, who, now he is in your power, can well hold his fellows at bay?” It became a joke between us about the demons, and indeed I discovered that as long as Karon was with me, I could survive a venture to the vaults. Only rarely did I go, however, and I always checked the lamp oil carefully.

  It was while delving into the crates of booty hauled from Valleor after its conquest that Karon came across a legacy from his ancestors. One summer afternoon, I came to Karon’s workroom as I did several times a week to help sort and number the artifacts. I had suggested a cataloging scheme, so we could have a record not only of what was stored in the vaults, but also where each item was located and what other items might be related to it.

  On this particular day I was recording a description of a crate of mouse-chewed books, a set of erotic stories written and illustrated by a Kerotean noble for his bride. I was hoping the woman had possessed a strong stomach and an exotic sense of humor. Karon appeared in the workroom doorway, and I waved a greeting, but he didn’t seem to notice me. He was dusty and disheveled, not an unusual state when he’d been working in the vaults, but the expression on his face was his “storytelling” look, as if, despite his body being in the room, he traveled in some faraway place. Where ordinarily he would see fourteen things needing his attention, he seemed at a loss.

  I left my list with a workman and threaded my way through the workroom clutter. “Karon, what is it? Have bodies come popping out of your rusty armor?”

  His eyes caught mine for a moment. “Yes . . . well . . . in a way.”

  A young man, whose nose, mouth, and chin came to such a sharp prominence as to be vaguely reminiscent of a rat, called out from across the room. “Lord Commissioner, should I discard this helm? It’s quite ordinary—Leiran, and not even a very nice one. I think it must have belonged to the fellow who collected this lot.” Racine had been the secretary for the previous Commissioner of Antiquities, but had been required to do little more than carry notes to the man’s mistress. Karon was pleased with Racine’s keen interest in the new procedures and how quickly the eager assistant’s eye had become discriminating.

  “Whatever you think, Racine.” Brought out of his distraction a bit by the exchange, Karon spoke quietly to me. “C
an you come? I’d like to show you. I don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Of course.”

  Karon told Racine to carry on and led me to the steep, winding stair. “We have to go down. Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll manage,” I said, touching his hand and remembering his magical light. “My demon is with me.”

  He took me deep into the far corner of the vault to a pile of rolled carpets. Setting the lamp on a nearby crate, he dragged a cracked leather trunk from underneath the pile. The trunk was full of old clothes. From deep beneath the jumble of faded silks and satins he pulled out a flat, wooden box. The wood was polished dark and smooth by years of handling, the plain brass hinges and latch tarnished. Karon raised the lid and reverently removed the contents, one by one.

  First, a silver knife, the finger-length blade and curved, ornately worked handle black with tarnish. Next a threadbare strip of cloth, a scarf or sash perhaps, more like a spiderweb that threatened to dissolve at a touch. Then a round, button-like piece, also made of silver, blackened by time. Karon laid each thing in my lap, and I could not mistake the wonder in his eyes.

  “They’re not very old by the standards of many things in the collection,” he said, “but they’re quite rare.”

  “What are they?”

  “Tools. The tools of a J’Ettanni Healer. One can use things that were originally designed for other purposes, as I do when I work, but there was a time . . . well, the custom was to have your own tools always ready: a knife of silver, cast with your own proper enchantments to keep it keen-edged—there is no way to make that part of it easy or pleasant, but a sharp knife is always better than dull—and a strip of white linen for the binding—it’s dangerous to lose contact in the middle of the rite, as I’ve told you. You can get dizzy. And in this”—he showed me how the button was actually a tiny cup with a hinged lid—“you would keep indiat, a paste made from herbs, quite rare and expensive, but it would ease the pain of the incision for the one you were to heal. The rite can be very hard, especially for children.”