A Parliament of Owls

  "Even if she understands, Owl, it will take time before she trusts. She's been very roughly treated."

  Owl nodded. "Do you suppose she's Fytrian? Maybe Kerigden could talk to her."

  Cithanekh glanced at her, to see whether he could read any reaction—either to the mention of that distant land, or to the name of the High Priest of the Windbringer's Temple—but the woman had shut her eyes. Without their brilliance and life, her face looked like a sculptor's representation of Famine.

  At last, the chair halted at the Palace gates. Cithanekh paid the bearers and gently lifted the woman out. The Imperial Guardsman on duty raised eyebrows but made no comment as they passed through the gates into the elaborate and elegant warren of corridors and galleries.

  Their arrival in the Ghytteve apartments precipitated a tempest of activity. Owl was greeted, hugged and tutted over; someone fetched the woman some water, which she drank with reverential attention; a messenger was dispatched to the wharves to coordinate the transport of Owl's belongings; lunch, baths, and rooms were arranged for; the woman (with the key to her shackles) was given into the care of the two female bodyguards; and finally, the bulk of the Ghytteve staff bustled off, leaving only two who waited to make reports.

  As the flurried activity subsided, Owl made his way to a brocaded hassock and sat down. He heard the door shut, closing out voices and footsteps; and he listened to the reports. The steward, Effryn, spoke in rapid bursts—the only trace Owl could hear of his Slum roots. Squirrel, as he had been called then, and Owl went way back; Owl could barely recognize his boyhood friend in this brisk, efficient man. When he was finished, the captain of Cithanekh's bodyguard, Cezhar, reported. He was annoyed; Owl could hear the man's underlying grievance through his deferential wording. Cithanekh heard it, too, for after a moment, the Ghytteve Council Lord interrupted.

  "Cezh," he said, his tone equal parts pleading and laughter. "Won't you forgive me for going without you? We're back safely, and I promise not to do it again."

  "I don't like needless risks," Cezhar replied, abandoning his careful report. "And you even walked as far as the open-air slave market, without any escort at all. Are you trying to get yourself—and Owl—assassinated?"

  "Is it really that bad, Cezhar?" Owl asked. "When last I was home, you weren't dogging our every step."

  "It's that bad," the bodyguard said bleakly. "Court seems the same, outwardly, but there are ugly things beneath the surface: blood in the water, and the circling sharks. It's a feeling—instability; the tang of ruthlessness in the air."

  "Yes," Cithanekh agreed. "I feel it, too: but why now?"

  With the young lord's question, a face invaded Owl's inner sight: an old man, familiar, powerful: the Prime Minister, Zherekhaf Azhere. He was drastically changed from Owl's memory of him—a memory from before he was blinded. Zherekhaf looked frail and ill. Spindrift images surged through Owl; he sorted and channeled them with grim concentration. "Zherekhaf is dying," he said at last.

  "Sweet Lady Windbringer," Cithanekh whispered. "No wonder the vultures are gathering. There will be a host of contenders for his chain of office—and his power."

  "That's not the whole of it," Owl went on, grim. "Queen Celave is pregnant, no?"

  "She's due any day," Cithanekh affirmed.

  "It will be a boy: an heir."

  Cezhar made a soft growling noise, and Cithanekh began to pace. Owl smiled. Cithanekh didn't like to hold still while he thought. Owl listened to his friend's measured tread, as they both contemplated implications. The Scholar King, 'til now, had sired only daughters: four girls, no heir. A Royal son—while cause for rejoicing—presented a temptation to the Emperor's enemies. There was precedent in Bharaghlaf for assassinations and long regencies. The Emperor's progressive policies, his efforts in founding and supporting The Free School, his unwillingness to protect noble privileges at the expense of the poor made him beloved of the common people, but had earned him bitter enmity among the nobles of the Council Houses.

  "No wonder the Court feels like a mob poised for riot," Effryn said quietly.

  "Yes," the bodyguard agreed. "And you'll stir things up, Owl; ugly things, dangerous things."

  "I'll be as popular as a wasp at a garden party," the Seer agreed dryly, "but there's nothing new in that."

  "We'll have our work laid out keeping you safe," Cezhar said. "See that you don't make the task more difficult by taking foolish risks."

  Cithanekh's pacing had brought him behind Owl's seat. He rested his hands on the Seer's shoulders. "We'll be careful," he promised, and Effryn and Cezhar bowed and departed.

  Cithanekh kneaded the tense muscles in Owl's neck and shoulders. "What best to do?" he asked at last. "Can you look into the future and chart a safe course for us and our Emperor?"

  "It isn't that simple," Owl protested. "There are always choices—and consequences; and the glimpses of the future granted me are mere fragments, out of sequence and often unrelated. Damn it, I'm not an oracle; I haven't answers—only hints and possibilities." He drove his fist into his open palm. "At the Kellande School they call prophecy a gift; but it's a burden, too, and a responsibility—and I am neither very strong nor very wise."

  "My dear, amazing Owl," Cithanekh whispered. "You are the strongest person I know."

  Owl leaned his cheek against Cithanekh's forearm. "High praise," he said, striving for lightness. "But then, your acquaintance is made up of courtiers—and we all know how weak and dissolute they are."

  Before Cithanekh could reply to this sally, the door opened to admit Marhysse, one of the bodyguards. "We've finished with the slave, my lords," she reported crisply. "She's washed, bandaged, fed and sleeping." Awe colored her professional tone. "Gods, she was a mess; someone did a thorough job: not just a whipping, but burns and bruises as well. She let us tend her, though, and didn't make so much as a squeak. Is she mute?"

  Owl shrugged. "Send for me when she wakes and I'll try to talk with her."

  As the door closed behind the woman, Cithanekh gave Owl's shoulders a final pat. "Do you want to bathe before lunch?"

  "Yes; and could you take me through the apartments so I can memorize the new furniture arrangements?"

  "Perhaps Rhan can do it after lunch—or Effryn. I have a Council meeting."

  Owl suppressed a sigh. He knew better than to expect Cithanekh's responsibilities to suspend themselves, but he couldn't help wishing the vortex of events wouldn't suck his friend in so quickly. Despite his care, something must have shown in his face, for Cithanekh took his hand suddenly.

  "Owl? Are you all right?"

  "Of course."

  Cithanekh squeezed lightly. "Are you sure?"

  Owl smiled wryly. "Give me a little time to find my own place, my own tasks. I promise I won't cling to your sleeve."

  "That isn't what I meant," Cithanekh protested. When Owl offered no further comment, he sighed. "Let's find that bath."

  Chapter Three—The Windbringer's High Priest

  Owl sat with his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. He was alone; Cithanekh had gone off to the Council meeting, and the impeccably trained Ghytteve staff would not intrude on the young man to clear the luncheon debris. Despite his pose, Owl was not despairing; he was thinking, trying to weave the threads of his visions into the tapestry of events. He wasn't having much luck. There were too many apparently unrelated bits. The woman, for example: he had seen her in Ghytteve livery, but beyond that, he had not a hint of how she fit. There was a ship, under full sail in a strong wind with a crescent moon scudding through low clouds above it; Owl felt danger, though he couldn't tell whether the ship was threatened, or was itself a threat. As he had been taught to do, Owl called the images back, let them all spill through his memory like bright beads in a box lid: the constellation known as The Harp; Zherekhaf's frail face; a knife spinning out of capable fingers toward shadowy figure; a heavily pregnant woman, whom he knew to be Queen Celave; a crystal goblet brimming with wine dark as garnets; a young wo
man with a strong, sun-browned face, who wore House Dhenykhare colors and an angry expression; a burning house; a ring of red haired youths playing a throwing and catching game with wicked, razor-edged blades; dark streets and running figures; Rhydev Azhere, his Councilor's medallion glinting on his chest; a coiled snake; a pair of hands, shackled together; a series of unfamiliar faces; Arre, with an infant in her arms; the pallid face of the full moon, shrouded in mist; an isolated tower, pale as bone against a heavy sky; a dark-haired woman in a rain-gray cloak; thin, scarred hands playing an ebony harp; the quizzical face of the High Priest of the Windbringer.

  "Kerigden," Owl said aloud, feeling a fragment click into place. But the priest's vibrant mind was not reaching out to Owl; only the memory of his face lingered in back of Owl's eyes. His questing fingers found the table cymbal, which he rang. "Please send Rhan to me," he told the servant who answered the summons. "I would like to go out."

  "Out?" Rhan demanded, five minute later. He and Cezhar were brothers, and while they were alike in some ways, Rhan had never learned to bridle his feelings out of respect. He was blunt and outspoken, and Owl liked him for it, though many courtiers couldn't imagine why the Ghytteve Councilor allowed Rhan to stay at Court. "Owl, don't you ever listen? Cezhar just finished telling you it's dangerous."

  "I heard him, "Owl responded calmly. "It's why I sent for you instead of going by myself."

  "By yourself?" Outrage was strong in Rhan's voice. "Owl, you're blind."

  "I know," he said; he did his best to mute his bitter exasperation. "It doesn't mean I'm helpless, Rhan."

  Owl heard the older man begin to pace. "Why must you go out?"

  "I'm going to visit Kerigden."

  "Why not simply send for him?"

  Owl raised eyebrows, though his voice remained patient. "He's the Windbringer's High Priest; it would be an impertinence to send for him like a noble for a tradesman."

  "Cithanekh wouldn't want—"

  "I am not a songbird to be kept in a cage," he interrupted with brittle emphasis.

  "Of course not. But you're precious, Owl, and vulnerable; you need to be protected."

  "I am not a valuable book to be set on a shelf and guarded until someone wants to use me."

  "No; but Owl, we are responsible for your safety. Cithanekh wouldn't want you to risk yourself."

  "Then he should have left me in Kalledann," Owl said very softly, as if by whispering he could dilute his anger and desperation. "Rhan, I cannot walk the road which has been laid at my feet without taking risks. I swear I will be careful; but I cannot—will not—remain idle in the shadows while all the people I care about dance on the knife's edge of danger."

  "Cithanekh needs you safe. He needs—"

  "No." Owl's voice cut through Rhan's expostulations, fiercely passionate. "Cithanekh, the Emperor, Arre—they all need me to be what I am: a Seer. They need me to do whatever I may to chart a safe course through the shoals of ambition and greed. Don't you see? It isn't a choice between dangerous action and safe patience." The image of the ship seared his inner vision. "I cannot keep myself from danger here, any more than one can escape a killing tempest by staying in the hold of a ship."

  Rhan stopped pacing. He studied Owl as though searching for a hidden truth in the sightless, golden eyes. Finally, he sighed. "Very well. Shall we go?"

  ***

  "Owl!" Kerigden's voice was surprised and pleased. With very little warning, Owl found himself enveloped in a hug. Then, the priest took his shoulders and studied him. "You look awful," he said frankly. "You're so thin. Have you been ill?"

  "Homesick," Owl admitted wryly.

  "Well, clearly you haven't been home long enough to effect a cure. So why have you come to visit me on your—what?—first or second day back?"

  "Kerigden, are most Fytrians red-haired like you?"

  "No." A trace of speculation shaded his voice; Owl could easily imagine the slightly distant look on his face as he sent his mind coursing after reasons for Owl's question. "The fair skin is common, but the majority of Fytrians are dark-haired; some few are blonde. My red hair comes from my grandmother, who was from Eschadd."

  "Eschadd." Owl rolled the strange sibilance around his mouth as though trying to identify an off-taste. "And what's typical for someone from Eschadd? Dark red hair, darker than yours, and gold-green eyes like a cat's?"

  "Green—" He stifled surprise and said carefully, "Blue eyes, or gray, are typical. Owl, is there a specific person you are thinking of, or are you just inquiring generally?"

  "Why did green surprise you? Your eyes are green."

  "People of Eschadd with green eyes are invariably mage-gifted. Owl, about whom are you asking?"

  "I bought a woman in the slave market. She—"

  "Did she say she was from Eschadd?"

  "No. She won't speak; I don't know whether she understands. She's— I think she has been starving herself; but I saw her in my visions. I'm trying to figure out how she fits. What is ' mage-gifted?' Is it like the Great Talents of the Kellande School?"

  Kerigden nodded before he remembered Owl couldn't see. "Yes. The training is different—more rigorous. In Eschadd it is common to blind Seers—for the increased power, you understand. They teach four paths to power: Healer, Mage, Priest and Seer; healing is the most common gift, I'd guess, and sight-gifts rarest. Does she know you are blind?"

  "If she speaks Bharaghlafi—and if she was listening—she does. Can you translate for us?"

  "It isn't that simple. Listen, Owl: no one from Eschadd will survive as a slave; the shame is too great."

  He shrugged. "So I'll free her."

  "You don't understand," Kerigden protested.

  "Then explain. Kerigden, I'm listening."

  The High Priest was silent for a moment as he tried to put his misgivings into words. "Eschadd is a strange land, older—far—than Fytria and its other neighbors. Stories say it was a great empire, once, as vast as Bharaghlaf; but it fell, and all that is left is a remnant. For all that it is a culture past its days of power, the people of Eschadd are proud and rigid. Eschaddi society demands obedience to the common will. Individuals who cannot conform do not survive. Ritual suicide is common—disgrace, even in small matters, is often fatal. This unity of purpose is most pronounced among those mage-gifted. In Eschadd, it is not possible to ignore one's mage-gift; even if one's talent is insignificant, one becomes Eschaddan: trained in the Way. It is a demanding Way: body, mind, and spirit are each trained, each transformed. Those who lack the determination—or talent—to master the training die. Because of their rigorous training, Eschaddan are deadly fighters—with or without weapons, even the blind ones; they learn more mind work than any of the other schools know to teach; and they are bound to one another. They live in each other's minds and hearts and souls, somehow. There are tales that what one knows, all know; and that is why no one crosses the Eschaddan—for fear that all of them will brand one enemy."

  "If the Eschaddan are as powerful and feared as you say, then how could one be captured and enslaved?" Owl asked.

  "I cannot imagine. I would wager she is not an Eschaddande, and all this speculation is fruitless."

  An image crossed Owl's inner sight: the red haired youths, throwing and catching their wicked blades. They were all wearing gray tabards bearing the same device: a blood-red sun snared in the bare branches of a black tree. He described the scene to the High Priest. "Does it mean anything to you?"

  "There is a game from Eschadd, called thras'scherre, which children play with round stones. I remember hearing that the Eschaddan played it with knives." Kerigden shivered. "Owl, I pray my Lady that this woman is not an Eschaddande. Separation from the Eschaddan would have been unspeakably traumatic; such a disaster should have killed her; it could well have driven her mad. And Owl, if she is mad, she'll be unpredictable and very, very dangerous."

  "Was your grandmother mad?"

  "No; but neither was she of the Eschaddan. Her eyes were gray, though she had
green-eyed brothers—and a grandson."

  "Were you trained by the Eschaddan? You said one of the paths to power was Priest."

  Kerigden made an odd, warding gesture. "No," he said tightly. "The Eschaddan would never accept one of less than pure blood. Remember, I said they were proud and rigid."

  "Must an Eschaddande separated from her people be mad?" Owl mused. "What force or power would be enough to keep her alive and sane? Love? Revenge? The need for freedom? Maybe she never wanted to be a part of the Eschaddan in the first place, and the separation was merely release."

  "If you wanted to be a bird instead of a man, would you flap your arms and leap from a cliff? And would it do any good if you did? Isn't it a kind of madness to want to be other than you are? Believe me, Owl, you do not want anything to do with a mad Eschaddande. It would be like making a pet of a dragon."

  Silence stretched between them as the High Priest watched the Seer's face. Owl's golden, sightless eyes and sculpted face were as unrevealing as a temple frieze.

  "I cannot read you at all, Owl," Kerigden said at last. "What are you thinking?"

  The Seer's voice was dry. "I was remembering a tale from Kalledann, about a man who befriended a dragon."

  "Did he come to a bad end?"

  Owl's smile turned sardonic. "Not exactly. Nothing was the same, afterward; but I don't think he would have chosen differently. His name was Andrutil. He founded the Kellande School."

  "Eight hundred years ago. Doubtless the dragon is a legend. You can't—"

  Owl interrupted. "Will you translate for us?"

  "I can't. The little I knew of the Eschaddi tongue has faded beyond recall, I fear. I wish I could talk you out of this." Hope colored his beautiful voice as he added, "Or do you know she is a friend?"

  "I only know that she is important."

  The High Priest sighed; then he reached out and brushed Owl's cheek with two fingers. "Is this wise?"

  Owl shrugged. "Clearly, you think it rash. But Kerigden, I fear the time for caution is long past; rashness may be our last hope." He smiled a little crookedly. "I can't promise I won't take risks, in this wild game of blind leaps and mad chances, but I'll try not to be stupid about it."