Son of Avonar Page 19

  As always, I had a hundred questions but I wasn’t sure he would even hear me.

  “It’s incredible enough to find these things, but they’re not all.” From the wooden box he pulled a small book, hardly bigger than his hand. Its leather cover was half rotted away, the stitching gone, leaving it little but a stack of pages of precarious thinness. Faded ink filled the pages, words of a language I didn’t recognize written in a bold hand.

  “The Healer’s journal,” said Karon. “See the symbol of the knife on the front. And here”—with utmost care, he opened to the front of the little book—“a list of names and places, and what I think must be a description of the circumstances for each healing he did. It’s written in the old language of the J’Ettanne, which went out of use long before bound books. I know so little of the language, it’s hard to read it. But look at this entry.” His face was that of a child on Long Night. “Garlao, the miller. Mycenar—that must be the village—hand caught in—something. J’dente means healed. It’s so important for a Healer to remember. There are times when it’s not right to change the outcome, times when death is not an enemy to be thwarted, times when sickness must be left to burn itself out, and so you must constantly look back at the judgments you’ve made to see if your course is straight. This man did it this way.” Karon’s whole posture begged me to understand what it meant to him to find these things. He believed he was the last living soul of his own kind.

  “It’s a connection both to all those who came before you and to one particular man who was a Healer like yourself.”

  “And even more than that. You see, he’s marked the book into days. Some are skipped; some are just noted by a symbol.” He turned the delicate pages carefully. “This one he’s marked Av’Kenat. I think the text must be a description of it . . . by one who was there.”

  Av’Kenat was the “Walking Night,” the late autumn celebration when the ancient J’Ettanne would come together to celebrate the passing of summer, the harvest, and their belief that life was a formless essence, given shape by the crossing of our paths as each of us walked the Way laid down for us. It was a time for storytelling and family reunions, for betrothals and weddings, reunions and feasting, and magical games and displays of all kinds.

  Karon’s face glowed in the lamplight. “All I’ve ever heard is legends, passed down so many times one never knew if they were true. Our people never dared join together on Av’Kenat. Only in the heart of the family could we have any celebration, and that contradicted the whole meaning of the feast. If I were to work at it, I could read of the real thing from one who witnessed it.”

  “You could learn things that even your own family didn’t know.”

  He nodded, but the glow was already fading, and his brow quickly settled into a frown. “But I’m required to destroy the journal and the other things. The law explicitly forbids these words, this language, any mention of these events and activities.”

  “If you were not married, would you consider destroying them?”

  He glanced up quickly. “Of course I would. The risk . . .” The flush of his cheeks spoke truer.

  “How dare you use me as an excuse for cowardice! I don’t recall making any vow of safety when I married you. Nor do I recall requiring you to make any pledge to relinquish your life, your history, or any of those things that make you who you are. Besides”—I grabbed his chin and shook his frown away—“these are treasures that belong to the royal collection, and it would ill become the Commissioner of Antiquities to destroy anything in his charge.”

  “Ah, Seri.” His pleasure illuminated the dim vault. “It would take me quite a while to decipher it all. What I’ve thought is that I could first transcribe it. Then I could return the book here and work at the translation as I had time.”

  “Not at all efficient, Lord Commissioner. If I were to transcribe it for you, then you could begin work on the translation before the transcription is complete—tonight, if you wish.”

  For the rest of the summer, I seldom came to the storehouse of antiquities. Not only did I transcribe the fragile pages onto decent paper, but I also made separate notes of word usage and combinations that appeared frequently. Karon taught me the words as we worked, and I developed the rudiments of a dictionary comprised of both words and symbols. Never had any work satisfied me so.

  The Healer often wrote in symbols, many of them representing J’Ettanni talents and offices. Karon told me that in the Healer’s day it was the custom to have the device painted on the lintel of your house: the knife for the Healer, the lyre for a Singer, the bridle for the Horsemaster, and so on. “If my father had lived in those days, he would have had his own Word Winder’s spiral, as well as this one.” He was sitting at our library table, and in the margin of his page of translation, he sketched a rectangular shield with two curved lines set into it, and a stylized floweret in each of the three regions scribed by the lines. “This is the symbol of a ruler. Christophe inherited both the talent and the office from our father—”

  I was standing behind him and leaned over his shoulder to look closer. “But you were older. Why was your brother to inherit?”

  “Our elders had ways to discern who was gifted in that way. Perhaps they could see I had no stomach for ruling. Christophe was to be officially named my father’s heir on his twentieth birthday in the autumn Avonar was destroyed. I planned to go home for it. If the Leirans had attacked two months later, I would have been in Avonar with the rest of them.”

  I tugged at his chin, forcing him to look at me. “But you were not—for which I bless the hand of fate every hour. Does it bother you? Make you feel guilty that you weren’t there with them?”

  He smiled. “No. That would not be very J’Ettanni, would it? Such was the Way that unfolded for us; we had escaped the ravages of the Leiran war for a long time as it was. But I miss them all and wish very much that they could meet you. All except Christophe.”

  “And why not him?”

  “Ah. He was very much closer to your age than I, and altogether more handsome and charming.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Every young woman in Avonar was in love with him.”

  “And did they not recognize the charms of his older brother?” I took the pen from his hand and threw it on the desk, crammed the stopper in the ink bottle, and pulled him from the chair.

  “Let’s say I was fortunate to meet you before you knew of my true profession. Few Healers ever married. Though you, I think, would have defied the common wisdom. . . .”

  The hunger was growing in him again. His easy laugh told me that he didn’t sense it yet, but his skin was hot, and when I wrapped my arms about his neck, I felt the quickening of his heart. I closed my eyes and drew his arms around me like a shield.

  CHAPTER 13

  Year 3 in the reign of King Evard

  By my twenty-fourth birthday the king and queen of Leire had produced a daughter, the Princess Roxanne, and my transcription of the Healer’s journal was complete. I had copied every word, drawn every symbol and diagram just as the author had penned them. Karon had replaced the journal in the wooden box and buried the trunk under piles of carpets, marked with a number that appeared on none of Racine’s lists. The translation was progressing well. Karon was able to puzzle out enough of the words to make some sense, and I would carefully record each newly deciphered word in my dictionary. We had come to think of the ancient Healer, whom we called the Writer, as an acquaintance just as real as Martin or Tennice.

  The Writer had lived approximately four hundred fifty years ago, during the time just before the Rebellion when the J’Ettanne ruled Leire—the unholy usurpation, Leiran historians called it. He had traveled the roads of Leire and Valleor, taking his skills from village to village, spending his power until he had no more to give. Even in those days the gift of healing was rare, and the need for his help far outstripped his capacity.

  Karon told me that a healing such as he had done for Martin, using the blood-rite to b
ring someone from the very brink of death or beyond it, was all the sorcery he could work for a matter of several hours. Lesser healings were easier, not needing the heavy investment of lifegiving, but the effects on the Healer were cumulative. Many Healers would not even attempt small hurts or illnesses, husbanding their resources for more serious needs, afraid the process of replenishing their power would be too slow.

  The Writer had not been one of these. He would take all comers until he could do no more. There had come a night when one of his own children had wakened with a virulent fever. The Writer had spent all of his power that day and had nothing left with which to heal her, and so his small daughter had died. He wrote of his profound grief, but did not change his ways.

  I was appalled. “Bludgeon-headed man, why didn’t he learn from his mistake? He should have saved something back for his own children. What a cold fish he must have been.”

  “Not at all,” said Karon. “Read how he wrote of the child. He cared very much. But he didn’t see it as a reason to change. When you give a gift, you cannot retain part of it. It is either yours or the other’s. No in-between. Sorcery and healing are not some oddity or aberration that alter the paths of life. They are a part of it. I was able to heal Christophe because it wasn’t time for him to die, and Martin the same. If I’d spent what I did on Martin, and then Tennice had needed me, it would not be my part to say, ‘If only I had not . . .’ That’s a sure route to madness.”

  “But you said you must constantly look back at your judgments.”

  “And so you must. But in each case on its merits alone, not on what the circumstances of life have made of it. Such is the Way.”

  I couldn’t see it. “It makes no sense. If you see your way blocked by the enemy, you don’t keep marching down the same road. You withdraw and change your tactics. It was his own child. He was responsible.”

  As with so many of our arguments, a kiss ended, but did not settle it.

  When winter came and another Seille, we celebrated the first year of our marriage. Karon gave me a delicate gold locket, engraved with a rose. Inside it I put a crumbled bit of the enchanted roses he had grown for me. I gave him a chestnut stallion. He named the horse Karylis, which in the language of Valleor means sunlight. Karylis was the name of the mountain where he had healed his brother and come into his calling.

  On one quiet night in midwinter, I sat nestled in an oversized chair by our library fire, plodding through a story written in Vallorean, trying to bolster the smattering of language skills I had neglected so sorely in my girlhood. I was finding myself easily distracted, in the latest instance observing how the pool of lamplight lit Karon’s high cheekbones so delectably as he sat at the library table poring over the journal transcription. So I was not too startled when he sat back and burst out, “Mother of earth! Seri, come see what I’ve found.” His high color made the lamplight pale. I hadn’t seen him so excited since the finding of the journal.

  I abandoned my chair and lap robe to lean over his shoulder and see what page had revealed such a dramatic secret. It was a diagram labeled with odd symbols. “I never expected we’d make any sense of this one,” I said. “Have you deciphered it?”

  “I’ve not interpreted the diagram or the symbols, but I know their purpose.” He turned back a few pages and traced his finger over my writing. “The Writer has been getting more and more worried about the terrible things being done by the Open Hand. He says that on Av’Kenat, one of the rebellious cities was beset by a ‘legion’ or ‘army,’ or something like that, of nethele. Nethele means ‘the dead.’ Evidently this ruler, Zedar, whom he has mentioned before, sent the spirits of the dead to frighten his subjects into submission, filling their minds with ‘the most pernicious mortal dread.’ The Writer is horrified at the perversion of Av’Kenat, and it looks as if it inspired him to action. What do you think he’s done?”

  I squeezed his shoulder and jiggled it. “Don’t make me guess.”

  “He’s gone to the elders of the Closed Hand and asked for refuge in Vittoir Eirit, the J’Ettanni stronghold. And he’s written down the route they told him.”

  “He wrote it down? I thought it was the most closely guarded secret.” More and more I was losing any wonder at how powerful sorcerers had given up a kingdom so easily.

  “It was. But the Writer never trusted himself to remember everything he needed to keep straight, so he encoded the instructions. It’s the reason for the symbols. Seri, if I can unravel his code, I might be able to find the stronghold. Can you imagine it?”

  “Surely there would be nothing left.”

  “Hard to say. The stories we told in Avonar came from people sent away from Vittoir Eirit when the elders decided to abandon it. My ancestors never knew what became of the stronghold, and they were forbidden to seek out any other of the J’Ettanne, so they had no way to find out. They assumed it had been discovered and destroyed. But even if it’s ruined, think how fine it would be to discover its location. To walk in Vittoir Eirit . . .”

  Karon had taken on his dreaming look again, and I tugged at his hair. “Give it up. You’ll not unravel a four-hundred-fifty-year-old puzzle without the key to his code.”

  “True. But we’ve already learned that the Writer is not a complex man. The key will be here in his journal.”

  “And birds will fly upside down and Evard will develop a heart.” I flopped back in my chair and picked up my book, but my eyes did not leave Karon’s glowing face.

  The search for the key to the Writer’s code occupied the entire spring, but by the beginning of our second summer married, we were no closer to the answer. The diagram consisted of five symbols, connected by straight lines. We assumed the lines were roads or trails and the symbols landmarks of some kind. We pulled out maps of Valleor to see what roads might fit the pattern, but too many years had passed, and even in our present day, maps were notoriously inaccurate. And, too, we had no idea if the distances between the symbols on the page were at all in proportion to the actual distances involved. The five symbols were no more enlightening. One was almost certainly a foot, one looked something like a trunk or chest, another resembled a hunting horn. The other two looked like a man’s face and a rabbit. We investigated the names of towns and villages, rivers and landforms, and tried a hundred other ideas, seeking some correspondence, but to no avail.

  Karon proceeded with the translation, learning more of the Writer’s travels and his life with his wife and six remaining children. The man wrote of his garden and his animals, of the difficulties of teaching his children to read and finding mentors for their emerging talents. He wrote loving and lengthy descriptions of their games and childish follies. We laughed when we read of his five-year-old daughter’s attempts to install the family pig in the house in the dead of winter. She was afraid the beast would be cold and succeeded in inducing it to follow her about like a tame dog. It took all of the family together to overcome the little girl’s enchantment and persuade the agitated pig to retreat to the cold barnyard.

  As Karon read this passage, he sat beneath a tree in our garden, and I lay on the grass with my head in his lap. “When do you know . . . with a child?” I asked.

  “If they have magical talent, you mean? When one of the parents is not J’Ettanne?” I felt him move under my cheek. I loved the way Karon’s body came to life when he spoke.

  I nodded.

  “Five or six years.” Karon touched my cheek, and looked down with a smile that made my heart swell. “It won’t matter you know, if and when such a marvel occurs. The child is the miracle. And the love that creates it. Nothing else.”

  “Were there marriages like ours in Avonar?”

  “Yes. We were so few. We could not marry just within our own kind.”

  “And the children . . . it really didn’t matter? Not even to them?”

  His eyes drifted out of focus. “There was an old J’Ettanni Healer named Celine. She became my mentor after my day in the mountains with Christophe. She was married
to a candlemaker who was not J’Ettanne, and one day I asked her if her children had talent or not. She said that one of her sons had looked to be a tamer of horses since he could walk, and he had grown into the most renowned horse-tamer in Avonar.

  “ ‘Eduardo, the Horsemaster?’ I asked her. Eduardo’s power was renowned among us. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘But my other son showed no magical talents at all.’

  “And in the fullness of my newfound J’Ettanni manhood, I asked her, quite solicitously, was it not terribly difficult to see one son so talented and one so . . . ordinary. Celine nodded gravely and said it was one of the trials of parents to see children unequally blessed. Her other son had worried about it a great deal when he was a youth and didn’t want to listen to those who told him that his own talents were of no less value than J’Ettanni sorcery. But while Eduardo was in the fields with the horses, Morin read and studied, talked with the elders, and made what he could of himself.

  “ ‘Morin?’ I said. And she smiled slyly and said, yes, Morin was the name of her unmagical son. Well, Morin was possibly the wisest man I have ever known. He was my father’s chief counselor and the most respected man in Avonar. Of all that was lost to the world in the destruction of Avonar, the loss of his mind was perhaps the most grievous. Even now, I always begin to sort out a problem by thinking how Morin would approach it. So, you see, I learned my lesson early what gifts were important. It really doesn’t matter.”