Shadowplay

“Shall we make a fire?”

  “Might as well. It could be that we cannot travel again until tomorrow. Find some dry wood—it makes things easier.”

  When Briony had returned to the spot with half a dozen pieces of reasonably dry deadfall, Lisiya piled them into a tiny hill, then took the last piece in her bony grip and said something Briony could not understand, a slur of rasping consonants and fluting vowels. Smoke leaked between Lisiya’s fingers. By the time she put the stick down among the others, fire was already smoldering from a black spot where she had held it.

  “That’s a good trick,” Briony said approvingly.

  Lisiya snorted. “It is not a trick, child, it is the pitiable remains of a power that once could have felled half this forest and turned the rest into smoking ruin. Mastery over branch and root, pith and grain and knot—all those were mine. I could make a great tree burst into flower in a moment, make a river change course. Now I can scarcely start a fire without burning my hand.” She held up her sooty palm. “See? Blisters. I shall have to put some lavender oil on it.”

  As the goddess rummaged through her bag Briony watched the fire begin to catch, the flames barely visible in the still-strong afternoon light. It was strange to be in this between-place, this timeless junction between her life before and whatever would come next, let alone to be the guest of a goddess. What was left to her? What would become of her?

  “Barrick!” she said suddenly.

  “What?” Lisiya looked up in irritation.

  “Barrick—my brother.”

  “I know who your brother is, child. I am old, not an idiot. Why did you shout his name?”

  “I just remembered that when I was in . . . before I found you . . .”

  “ You found me?”

  “Be-fore you found me, then. Merciful . . . ! For a goddess, you certainly are thin-skinned.”

  “Look at me, child. Thin? It barely keeps my bones from poking out—although there does seem to be more of the wrinkly old stuff than there once was. Go on, speak.”

  “I was looking in a mirror and I saw him. He was in chains. Was that a true vision?”

  Lisiya raised a disturbingly scraggly eyebrow. “A mirror? What sort? A scrying glass?”

  “A mirror. I’m not certain—just a hand mirror. It belonged to one of the women I was staying with in Landers Port.”

  “Hmmmm.” The goddess dropped her pot of salve back into her rumpled, cavernous bag. “Either someone was using a mighty artifact as a bauble or there are stranger things afoot with you and your brother than even I can guess.”

  “Artifact ... do you mean a magic mirror, like in a poem? It wasn’t anything like that.” She held up her fingers in a small circle. “It was only that big.”

  “And you, of course, are a scholar of such things?” The goddess’ expression was enough to make Briony lower her gaze. “Still, it seems unlikely that a Tile so small, yet clearly also one of the most powerful, should be in mortal hands and no one aware of it, passed around as if it were an ordinary part of a lady’s toiletry.”

  Briony dared to look up again. Lisiya was apparently thinking, her gaze focused on nothing. Briony did her best to be patient. She did not want the goddess angry with her again. She did not—O merciful Zoria!—want to be left in the forest by herself. But after the sticks in the fire had burned halfway down, she could not keep her questions to herself any longer.

  “You said ‘tile’—what are those? Do you mean the sort of thing that we have on the floor of the chapel? And what is Zoria like? Is she like the pictures to look at? Is she kind?” Once, she recalled, her own lady-in-waiting, Rose Trelling, had gone back to Landsend for Orphanstide and had been asked an extraordinary number of questions by her other relatives—about Briony and her family, about life in Southmarch Castle, a thousand things. So we wonder about those who are above us—those who are well-known, or rich, or powerful. Are they like us? It was funny to think that ordinary folk thought of her as she thought of the gods. Who did the gods envy? Whose doings made them sit up and take notice? There were so many things Briony wanted to know, and here she sat with a living, breathing demigoddess!

  Lisiya let out a hissing sigh. “So you have determined on saving me from this painful immortality have you? And your killing weapon is to be an unending stream of questions?”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry, but .. . how can I not ask?”

  “It’s not that you ask, it’s what you ask, kit. But it is always that way with mortals, it seems. When they have their chances, they seldom seek important answers.”

  “All right, what’s important, then? Please tell me, Lisiya.”

  “I will answer a few of your questions—but quickly, because I have concerns of my own and I must listen carefully to the music. First, the Tiles used in the most potent scrying glasses are pieces of Khors’ tower, the things that the foolish poem you were bellowing through the forest called ‘ice crystals’ or some such nonsense. They were made for him by Kupilas the Artificer—‘Crooked,’ as the Onyenai call him . ..”

  “Onyenai?”

  “Curse your rabbiting thoughts, child, pay attention! Onyenai, like Zmeos and Khors and their sister Zuriyal—the gods born to Madi Onyena. You know the Surazemai—Perin and his brothers, the gods born to Madi Surazem. The Onyenai and Surazemai were the two great clans of gods that went to war with each other. But old Sveros fathered them all.”

  Chastened, Briony nodded but did not say anything.

  “Yes. Well, then. Crooked helped Khors strengthen his great house, and the things that he used to do it ensured that Khors’ house was not found just in Heaven any longer, nor was it on the earth, but opened into many places. Kupilas used the Tiles to make this happen, although some said the Tiles only masked its true nature and location with a false seeming. In any case, after the destruction of the Godswar, after Perin angrily tore down Khors’ towers, some of the remnants were saved. Those are the Tiles we speak of now. They appear to be simple mirrors but they are far more—scrying glasses of great power.”

  “But you don’t think that’s how I saw Barrick . . . ?”

  “I am old, child, and I am no longer so foolish as to think I know anything for certain. But I doubt it. In all the world only a score or fewer of the Tiles survive. I find it hard to believe that after all these ages another would wind up in a lady’s cosmetics chest in ... where did you say? Landers Port?”

  Briony nodded.

  “More likely something else is afoot with you and your brother. I sense nothing out of the ordinary from your side, nothing magical—other than your virginity, which always counts for something, for some reason.” She let out a harsh, dry chuckle. “Sacred stones, look at Zoria. Millennia have passed, and they still call her a virgin!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A rare possession among both the Surazemai and Onyenai, I can promise you. In fact, other than perhaps the Artificer himself—there’s irony there, isn’t there?—only our Devona remained unsullied, and I think that may have been as much from inclination as anything else. Just as among mortals, the gods were made in all sorts of shapes and desires. But Zoria ... certainly not, poor thing.”

  “Are you saying that the blessed Zoria isn’t . . . wasn’t . . . she’s not . . . a . . .

  Lisiya rolled her eyes. “Girl, I told you, Khors was her lover and she loved him back. Why do you think she ran away from the meadows and the Xandian hills? To be with him! And had her father not come with all his army of relatives to defend his own honor—foolish men and their honor!—she would have happily married the Moonlord and borne him many more children. But that was not fated to be, and the world changed.” For a moment the brittleness seemed to soften; Briony watched a sadness so deep it looked like agony creep over the goddess’ gaunt face. “The world changed.”

  Her expression was too naked—too private. Briony looked down at the fire.

  “To answer your earlier, unfinished question . . .” Lisiya said suddenly, then cleared her throat.
“No, Zoria was not a virgin. And now she simply is not—nor are any but we pathetic few, stepchildren and monsters, castoffs of Heaven. Like insects crawling out of the scorched ground—when a forest fire has passed, only we survived the last War of the Gods.”

  “You mean . . . the other gods are dead?”

  “Not dead, but sleeping, child. But the sleep of the gods has already been ages long, and it will continue until the world ends.”

  “Sleeping? Then the gods are . . . gone?”

  “Not entirely, but that is another story. And I do not doubt that a few more aging demigods and demigoddesses like me are still caring for their forests, or landlocked lakes that once were small seas. But I have not talked to one of my kin in the waking world for so long I can scarcley remember.”

  “No gods? They left us?”

  Lisiya’s smile was grim. “Not by choice, mortal kit. But they have slept since your ancestors first set stone on stone to build the earliest cities, so it is not as though anything has changed.”

  “But we pray to them! I have always prayed, especially to Zoria . .. !”

  “And you may continue to pray to her if you wish, and the others as well. They may even answer you—when they sleep, they dream, and their dreams are not like those of your kind. It is a restless sleep, for one thing ... but that is most definitely a tale for another time. As it is, we have dallied too long. Come, rise.”

  “What? Are we going to walk again?”

  “Yes. Follow.” And without looking back to see if Briony had obeyed her, Lisiya went limping away through the forest.

  The late afternoon sun was burrowing into the distant hills when they reached the edge of the Whitewood. As they stood with the great fence of trees behind them, Briony looked out over the meadowlands of what she could only guess was Silverside. The grassy plains stretched away as far to the north and west as she could see, beautiful, peaceful, and empty. “Why have we come here?” she asked.

  “Because the music calls you here.” Lisiya fumbled in her shapeless robes and drew out something on a string, lifting it over her head with surprising nimbleness. “Ah, a little sun on my bones is a kindly thing. Here, daughter. I am sorry we have not had more time. I miss the chance to speak to something less settled and slow than the trees, and for a mortal child you are not too stone-headed.” She held out her claw of a hand. “Take this.”

  Briony lifted it from her hand. It was a crude little charm made from a bird skull and a sprig of some dried white flowers, wrapped around with white thread. “I am too old to come when summoned,” Lisiya said, “and too weak to send you much in the way of help, but it could be that this might smooth your way in some difficult situation. I have one or two worshipers left.”

  As she drew the leather cord around her neck, Briony asked, “Have we reached the place you were talking about? You’re not going yet, are you?”

  Lisiya smiled. “You are a good child—I’m glad it was given to me to help you. And I hope this path will lead you to at least a little happiness.”

  “Path, what path?” Briony looked around but saw nothing, only damp grass waving in the freshening evening wind. It was the middle of nowhere no road, no track, let alone a town. “Where am I supposed to go ... ?”

  But when she turned back the old woman had vanished. Briony ran back into the forest, calling and calling, looking for some sign of the black-robed form, but the Mistress of the Silver Glade was gone.

  24. Three Brothers

  Listen, my children! Argal and his brothers now had the excuse they needed and their wickedness flowered. They went among the gods claiming that

  Nushash had stolen Suya against her will, and many of the gods became angry and said they would throw down Nushash, their rightful ruler.

  —from The Revelations of Nushash, Book One

  “THIS DOES NOT SEEM A GOOD IDEA to me,” Utta whispered. “What does he want from us? He is dangerous!”

  Merolanna shook her head. “You must trust me. I may not know much, but I know my way around these things.”

  “But ... !”

  She fell silent as the new castellan, Tirnan Havemore, walked into the chamber. He held a book in his hands and was followed by a page carrying more books with—rather dangerously—a writing-tray balanced atop them. Havemore wore his hair in the Syannese style that had swept the castle, cut high above the ears, and because he was balding he looked more like a priest than anything else—a resemblance, Utta thought, that Have-more was only too eager to encourage. Even when he had been merely Avin Brone’s factor he had seen himself as a philosopher, a wise man amid lesser minds. She had never liked him, and knew no one outside of the Tollys’ circle who did.

  Havemore stopped as though he had only just realized the women were in the room. “Why, Duchess,” he said, peering at them over the spectacles perched on his narrow nose,”you honor me. And Sister Utta, a pleasure to ve you, too. I am afraid my now duties as castellan have kept me fearfully busy of late—too busy to visit with old friends. Perhaps we can remedy that now. Would you like some wine? Tea?”

  Utta could feel Merolanna bristling at the mere suggestion that she and this upstart were old friends. She laid her hand on the older woman’s arm. “Not for me, thank you, Lord Havemore.”

  “1 will not take anything, either, sir,” the duchess said with better grace than Utta would have expected. “And although we would love to have a proper conversation with you, we know you are a busy man. I’m certain we won’t take much of your time.”

  “Oh, but it would be a true joy to have a visit.” Havemore snapped his lingers and waved. “Wine.” The page put down the books and the teetering tray on the castellan’s tall, narrow desk, a desk which had been Nynor Steffen’s for years and which had seemed as much a part of him as his skin and his knobby hands. Unburdened, the page left the room. “A true joy,” I lavemore repeated as though he liked the sound of it. “In any case, I will have a cup of something myself, since I have been working very hard this morning, preparing for Duke Caradon’s visit. I’m sure you must have heard about it—very exciting, eh?”

  It was news to Utta. Hendon’s older brother, the new Duke of Summerfield, coming here? Doubtless he would bring his entire retinue—hundreds more Tolly supporters in the household, and during the ominous days of the Kerneia festival as well. Her heart sank to think of what the place would be like, full of drunken soldiers.

  “So, my gracious ladies,” said Havemore, “what can I do for you today?”

  Utta could not imagine anything that Tirnan Havemore could do for them that would not immediately be reported to Hendon Tolly, so she kept her mouth closed. This was Merolanna’s idea; Utta would let the dowager duchess take the lead. Zoria, watch over us, here in the stronghold of our enemies, she prayed. Even if they knew nothing of the astonishing business she and Merolanna had embarked upon, the ruling faction held little but contempt for either of them, for one key reason: neither one of them had anything to bargain with, no strength, no land, no money. Well, except Merolanna is part of the royal family and a link to Olin. I suppose the Tollys want to keep her sweet at least until they’ve got their claws well into Southmarch.

  “But Lord Havemore, you must know what you can do for us,” Merolanna said. “Since you called us here. As I said, I don’t want to intrude on your time, which is valuable to all of Southmarch, and especially to Earl Hendon, our selfless guardian.”

  Careful, Utta could not help thinking. Merolanna had moved and was out of range of an admonitory squeeze of the arm. Don’t be too obvious, He doesn’t expect you to like him, but don’t let your dislike show too openly.

  “Hendon Tolly is a great man.” Havemore’s grin looked even more wolfish than before—he was enjoying this. “And we are all grateful that he is helping to guard King Olin’s throne for its legitimate heir.”

  The page returned with wine and several cups. Utta and Merolanna shook their heads. The page poured only one and handed it to the castellan, then stepped
back to the wall and did his best to look like a piece of furniture. Havemore seated himself in his narrow chair, pointedly leaving the dowager duchess standing.

  “You mean for King Olin, of course,” Merolanna said cheerfully, ignoring the calculated slight. “Guarding the throne for King Olin. The heir is all well and good, but my brother-in-law Olin is still king, even in his absence.”

  “Of course, Your Grace, of course. I misspoke. However, the king is a prisoner and his heirs are gone—perhaps dead. We would be foolish to pretend that the infant heir is not of the greatest importance.”

  “Yes, of course.” Merolanna nodded. “In any case, leaving aside all this quibbling about succession, which I’m sure is of scarcely any real interest to a scholar like yourself, you did call us here. What have we done to deserve your kind invitation?”