Before he could thank her, she was gone; the door banged in her wake. His visions returned, pulling at him urgently. The hand with the onyx signet; a woman being beaten, methodically and without heat, the riding whip landing only where the marks would be covered by Court dress; Queen Celave, her face a mask of grief above the infant nestled at her breast; Lynx, crouched in fighting stance against armed opponents; Mouse—his old friend, Amynne Ykhave—her eyes wide with shock and grief; the weeping Dhenykhare again; a furtive exchange: a pouch of gold for a small, stoppered vial; a crystal wine glass, overturned, wine pooling and spreading like blood on the creamy linen; a weighted net; a thrown knife; a trapdoor, over a long fall to sharpened stakes; Zherekhaf, the Prime Minister, his cold, assessing eyes the same, in a face gaunt as famine; towering thunderheads; a flash of lightning; tearing winds and tattered sails.
"Owl," Lynx's voice was sharp. It pulled him out of the riptide. He smelled coffee, heard Effryn's rustling presence.
"Thank you," he said, taking the cup and sipping the hot, sweet liquid.
"Are you all right?" Effryn demanded. "You look awful. Were they mean to you—the Queen and her ladies?"
Owl sighed. "No. I—" An image streaked his vision again: the frigate gripped by the hand with the onyx signet. "Who wears an onyx signet: a square in a heavy silver setting." He dredged his memory. "The stone is carved with...with—" The image filled his mind: a horse's skull bedecked with ribbons, a crown cut and fitted to the bone. "A horse's skull with a crown."
"A horse's skull?" Effryn repeated. "If it weren't a skull, it sounds like regalia from the Horselord's temple."
"And ribbons," Lynx said quietly, "like a beard from the horse's jaw?" At Owl's nod, she added, "Xhi'a'ieffth."
When Owl made no reply, Effryn said, "Is that supposed to mean something, or were you clearing your throat?"
She shrugged, fixing him with an unintelligible look. "It is a name. I do not know what they would be called in your language. They are—" she fished for a word— "a cult of sorcerers; the Eschaddan drove them out, long, long ago. The Xhi'a'ieffth taught that one need not be born mage-gifted, but could acquire power through study and sacrifice."
"Meditation and fasting?" Effryn said. "It sounds harmless. Why would the Eschaddan drive them out?"
"No," Owl said. "Study and human sacrifice; it was one of the Old Religions which were so ruthlessly suppressed when the Amartan States became federated. I remember studying them at the Kellande School."
"Yes," Lynx agreed. "According to their teachings, an Adept could sacrifice one of the mage-born and—appropriate—his power. They weren't always that fussy, though; they would use peasants, women and even livestock, if the mage-born were too heavily guarded. But surely the Empire of Bharaghlaf was never troubled by their presence?"
"Women can be mage-born," Effryn pointed out.
"And peasants," Lynx agreed. "But the Xhi'a'ieffth arose in ancient Eschadd, whose rigid caste system makes Bharaghlafi society seem as—fluid—as Kalledann. Besides, you cannot tell me that a Bharaghlafi noble would not have difficulty determining the relative merit of his daughter, say, and his favorite hound."
"It depends," Effryn insisted like one losing an argument, "on the noble."
"But who at Court wears such an emblem?" Owl cut in. "It is important. I think he means to murder the Admiral."
"Thantor might know," Effryn suggested. "I can take a message."
Owl nodded and Effryn started toward the door. "Squirrel," Owl called after him, and the steward paused, waiting. A formless anxiety hovered at the edges of the Seer's inner sight. "Take Rhan with you," he said at last.
"I will," Effryn promised and was gone.
Owl drained his cup. Lynx took it from him and refilled it. "It's important," he murmured. "I should know who it is."
"If he is really a disciple of the Xhi'a'ieffth, he may be capable of hiding himself from your Gift."
"But how could he be one of the Xhi'a'ieffth? Surely that knowledge was stamped out and lost, long ago."
Lynx sighed. "Ways of achieving power—even bad ones—do not stay lost, Owl. They disappear into the dark, until the guardians forget; and then they come up again, a little changed but growing from the same root, nonetheless. Ballads and histories are full of ancient evils returned, warnings unheeded, dangers forgotten or ignored. There is an island off the coast of Eschadd. It has a mountain at its center, which breathes smoke like a sleeping dragon. Tales tell of times when the mountain roused, spewed ash and fire, buried whole towns in molten rock. Yet to this day, people live at its feet; sometimes, even in my memory, the earth shakes, the mountain growls, the sea flees away and returns in great drowning waves. And the people bury their dead, rebuild their towns, and ignore the warnings. There is such willful blindness in people; and it is easier, far easier, to forget evil than to remember good.
"Long ago, the Eschaddan was pure; it taught a truth and a binding and a power with which Eschadd built an empire greater than any other, before or since. It drove out evils like the Xhi'a'ieffth; and if the accounts of the ancient chroniclers are to be believed, the powerful protected the weak and did not exploit them. In an era of peace and plenty trade flourished, the ancient universities were founded, and Eschadd was renowned for knowledge, art and music. And what is left, today? Standing stones of the old empire at crossroads a thousand miles from the heart of modern Eschadd; fragmentary accounts of wonders more fabulous than any bard's imaginings; and the Eschaddan, jealously guarding the dusty bones of a body of teaching which has been picked clean for generations. In the language of the ancient empire, the Eschaddan was called Eschaddan d'ir Reniddege'arreveh—you might say: the Way of Innovation. But when I tried to tell the Masters this, when I tried to justify my harping, to show them how it might focus power, they beat me; they locked me away by myself, and told me I would stay there until I could eschew such dangerous temptations. They wanted none of my innovations, no new ideas; and they were sure—sure—that they were right, the protectors of the Way, not the unwitting agents of its disempowerment."
Against the backdrop of her words, Owl saw a tower, pale as bone against a heavy sky; seabirds wheeled and cried, the bitter water sucked and frothed around stony teeth beneath the tower's barred windows. "A tower by the sea," he whispered. "I see it. How long were you there?"
"Three years," she said. Her tone was bland as milk, but Owl felt anger, despair and desolation, like overtones in the silence.
"How did you bear it?"
In answer, he felt her mental touch, and his mind was filled, suddenly, with music: an intricate, wild harping which encompassed the sea, the birds, the wind, and a loneliness vast as the empty horizon. I learned to make music without an instrument, she told him silently.
He shivered.
"And I learned," she added aloud, "not to need my Yearmates. The Masters thought they were punishing me; they expected, I think, to break me. Instead, they put the key to freedom in my hands."
Owl was silent, pondering. "Lynx," he said at last. "What is the ancient evil which overcame the Eschaddan?"
"Fear," she said. "When the Way ceased to be a road into the unknown, and became instead a walk in a walled garden, the Eschaddan lost its essential purity; over time, the emphasis has shifted from the journey to the act of walking, until the Way has become little more than a treadmill: a discipline to raise and use power, with no purpose, no goal. Fear builds walls, sets limits; it urges blindness on us; and it bids us to destroy that which we do not understand."
"Are you never afraid, then?" Owl asked her.
"Aaii," she said, annoyed. "Language! It is so imprecise. There are so many words for fear, so many kinds of unease. Of course I am afraid; I experience anxiety, alarm, dread. Sometimes I overcome it, and sometimes not. But I am talking mostly about the aspect of fear that is closest to awe: the fear that turns so easily into uncritical reverence and blind veneration. That kind of fear prevents us from looking closely; it shrouds truths
in mystery and makes it unseemly to want fully to know and to understand teachings and traditions. The other kinds of fear: one must know them, or there is never any chance of courage."
"I suppose," Owl said heavily. "But lately, it seems I spend all my time afraid, and all my energy defending my right to take risks."
"If the bodyguards are to be believed, it is nothing new to you, either the fear or the risks. They told me that when you first came here—a mere boy, and a slave—you would not let the old Lady use you as a lever against your Cithanekh. It would have been easier, and far safer, to have played her game; and yet, you would not—and more: you would not let Cithanekh acquiesce to her schemes. I suspect that no matter how afraid you feel, you will not let it trammel you."
"You've been gossiping," Owl said, his stern tone belied by his faint smile.
"Indeed not," she assured him. "They've been gossiping; I've been listening."
Effryn came back, then, and reported that he had delivered Owl's message to the Emperor's spymaster. Thantor had not recognized the described ring, but he would look into it, and report back as soon as he learned anything. Owl thanked Effryn, but as the steward went about his business, Owl felt with a sinking certainty that whatever knowledge Thantor gleaned would come too late.
Chapter Seven—Assassins
In the watch before dawn, Queen Celave of Bharaghlaf was delivered of a son. The watchtower klaxon woke Owl, freeing him from uneasy dreams about ships in storms. The heralds were not far behind the klaxon; they brought the news that the Royal Heir would be called Khethcel, and that both babe and mother were well and resting comfortably. That news released a tension in Owl he had not realized he was carrying; Cithanekh touched him, questioningly.
"What is it?"
"She will die, I think, in childbed," Owl told him, softly, "the Queen; though not this time. I hadn't realized I was afraid for her."
"Oh Owl," Cithanekh whispered. "How can you bear it, the knowing?"
"I don't know the things I need most to know," he said fretfully.
Cithanekh stroked his hair. "The black ring. It will come to you."
"Doubtless," he replied bitterly. "But not in time."
As Cithanekh murmured comfortingly, Owl tensed. Images behind his eyes: imperative, demanding. The Admiral's ship; the hand, monstrous and threatening; sails, thrashing to tatters; the unmistakable boom and surge of breakers. Suddenly, it was more than images; he felt the Admiral, shaking off cloying sleep like a great bear fighting free of its hibernation. The cabin lurched around him; the unlit lamp on its chain swung wildly in the scudding moonlight. The Admiral surged to his feet, staggered up on deck; he saw, with muzzy shock, the creaming waves to starboard: the Jaws, far, far too close; he looked up, saw the sails beating themselves to rags. He ran to the helm. The navigator was slumped on his bench, unconscious; he shook him, but to no avail. He ran toward the lifeboats, then stopped halfway there as he realized the appalling truth: one missing, and the others with holes like gaping wounds in their bellies. Guiding Light shuddered in the riptide; then, like a death knell, he felt the scrape of rocks along her hull. "No!" he cried in outrage more than fear. There was the scream of rending timbers and the ship listed, suddenly. A boom slipped its tether and swung across the deck; it caught him in the side of the head and slammed him like a rag doll into the seething water.
"Owl!" Cithanekh's panicked cry pulled the Seer out of his vision. He gulped air as if he had been drowning. Cithanekh shook him, gently, though his fingers dug hard into the muscles of his upper arms. He raised a hand and pushed feebly at the young lord. "I'm all right," he gasped. "I'm—oh, dear gods," he whispered, fighting nausea.
"What is it?" Cithanekh asked. "What's happened? Owl, are you all right?"
"I'm all right," he repeated. "It's the Admiral; I felt him die."
"Gods," Cithanekh whispered. "How?"
"Someone drugged him, drugged his crew, and steered his ship onto the rocks. He—he knew what was happening, at the end. He—" Memory of the Admiral's outrage poured over him again, and his rebellious stomach roiled anew. He swallowed hard. "He was angry, outraged, afraid for his men."
"Who could do such a thing?" Cithanekh asked. "Who would?"
"The man with the black ring," Owl replied flatly. "Whoever it is."
Cithanekh released Owl and got out of the bed.
"Where are you going?" Owl asked him.
"To tell the Emperor. Rest easy, Owl; I'll take care of everything."
"No. Wait. I want to come with you."
"I'd rather you stayed behind," Cithanekh said.
"Do I have to spell it out for you? Cithanekh, I don't want to be alone."
"I'll send Effryn in to sit with you."
"I don't want Effryn; I want you. Send Effryn to Thantor—the Emperor just had a son; he's not going to want to be bothered with my crazy speculations."
In the act of putting on his tunic, Cithanekh froze, peering through the shadowy dark at Owl. "There's more; something you haven't told me. What is it, Owl?"
But the Seer shook his head mutely.
Cithanekh watched him for another moment, then he pulled the tunic over his head and smoothed out the wrinkles. "I owe Khethyran the courtesy of delivering such tidings personally. He was fond of the Admiral."
"They're my tidings. I should take them," Owl blurted.
"I'm dressed."
"Please, Cithanekh; don't go."
The young lord sat down on the bed and put his arm around Owl's shoulder. The Seer startled at the touch; he did not then relax, but sat stiffly, as tense as coiled wire, in Cithanekh's comforting hold. "Owl," the young lord said patiently. "You are as jumpy as a colt in a thunderstorm. What is the matter? I'll take Cezhar with me; I'll be careful and I'll be back soon. All right?"
Owl shook his head and Cithanekh let his breath out in an almost noiseless sigh. "Cithanekh," Owl gritted through clenched teeth. "Take my warnings seriously, or ignore them; but don't treat me like a child who's afraid of the dark!"
"Don't act like one," Cithanekh retorted. "Owl, I love you and I trust you; and I'll take you seriously. But I need to know what you're afraid of."
"I don't know!" he said, his control wavering. "Something! Or nothing. I can't tell. I feel it: like a predator, stalking. But whether it has your scent, or mine, or—gods help us all—the Emperor's, I can't begin to say."
Cithanekh worried his lower lip with his teeth. "You want me to stay with you until it comes clear to you? Is that it?"
Owl drew a deep breath and held it; then it gusted free in a sigh. "Damn. I'm being ridiculous; I know it. My worst nightmare, Cithanekh, is that I'll discover dangers too late to save you from them."
There was a tap on the door, then.
"What is it?" Cithanekh asked.
The door opened and Cezhar said, "There's a woman—a lady—here to see Owl. She says it is urgent and that it will not wait until morning. She gives her name as Adythe Dhenykhare. She's wearing veils, which she refuses to remove, but Lynx believes she recognizes her voice, that she was with the Queen's ladies in the garden."
"Is Effryn up?" Cithanekh asked. When Cezhar nodded, he said, "Send him in here to help Owl dress, and tell him to stay with him; I don't want him seeing this woman—whoever she is—alone. Where is she?"
"She's waiting in the red sitting room. I left Marhysse and Lynx with her."
He nodded shortly. "Good. So: get Effryn in here; then you and I need to find the Emperor—or Thantor." He shot a look at his friend. "All right, Owl?"
Owl's gesture fell in the indeterminate region between acquiescence and fatalism, but he did not argue. Moments later, when Cithanekh had gone, Effryn brought him coffee and helped him into his clothes.
"Adythe Dhenykhare," Owl said quietly. "Who is she?"
"Hmm," Effryn frowned struggling with his memory; then he shook his head. "I haven't Donkey's knack for names. Sorry, Owl; I can't remember."
"What does she want?"
&n
bsp; "Don't know," he admitted. "She wouldn't give us particulars, just said it was urgent and wouldn't wait. Best will be to ask her yourself; ready?"
In answer, Owl took his old friend's arm and permitted himself be led to the red sitting room. As they entered, the visitor hurried forward in a rush of silks and took Owl's hands. "I must speak with you—alone," she announced in a throbbing voice.
"I am never alone, Lady Dhenykhare," Owl told her; the voice he knew: the lady who had laughingly said, 'Dhenykhare, yes; not the Admiral.' "How may I serve you?"
"You cannot expect me to blurt out personal business in front of servants," she protested.
"Their discretion is absolute," Owl assured her. "And they are not, precisely, servants: Effryn is an old friend; Lynx and Marhysse are bodyguards. Now, what is troubling you?"
She hesitated, but seemed somehow to sense Owl's immovable resolve. "This afternoon, in the garden, you had a vision; it upset you, and you asked me if I was the Admiral's wife. I need to know what you saw."
"Why?"
"Please," she said. "It is important. I fear—I fear the Admiral is in danger."
"What makes you think such a thing?" Owl asked, keeping his voice steady over the sudden racing of his heart.
"He—the Admiral—is sometimes prescient," she said. Owl's neck prickled, for under her very real distress, the overtone of falsehood rang like a cracked bell in her voice. "He said—He told me—He feared he would come to grief on this voyage. He gave me—instructions: what to do if he didn't return. You saw something! Is he in danger? Can't we warn him?"
Images: a snare; the weighted net; the hand with the black ring working the stopper out of a vial. Owl fought to keep his voice even, mildly curious. "Why would the Admiral give you instructions? Are you his daughter?" And then, remembering the Admiral's age amended, "Granddaughter?"
"No. He's my great-uncle. But I was always his favorite, after Rhyazhe."
That could be true, Owl thought; but his Gift offered him the spinning lure; a Khyghafe shaman in the spangled mask of Starchaser; a slow, ceremonial dance around a figure wearing the crowned horse skull; the pit, full of sharpened stakes.