“You. What have you been doing with my son?”
“Teaching him,” said Vlad.
“Teaching him?” said Pae. “And what is it you think you’ll be teaching my boy?”
Vlad answered in a soft, gentle voice, much different than Savn had ever heard him use before. “I’ve been teaching him to hear the voices of the stones,” he said, “and to see prophecy in the movement of the clouds. To catch the wind in his hand and to bring forth gems from the dunes of the desert. To freeze air and to burn water. To live, to breathe, to walk, to sample the joy on each road, and the sorrow at each turning. I’m sorry if I’ve kept him out too late. I shall be more careful in the future. No doubt I will see you again. I bid you all a good evening.”
Mae and Pae stood there against the light, watching the Easterner’s back as his grey cloak faded into the night. Then Pae said, “In all my life, I never—”
“Hush now,” said Mae. “Let’s get this one to bed.”
Savn wasn’t sure what Vlad had done, but they didn’t say a word more about the hour, or about what he’d been doing. He went over to his corner under the loft, spread his furs out, and climbed in underneath them without saying another word.
That night, he dreamed of the cave, which, upon waking, he did not find surprising. In the dream, the cave was filled with smoke, which, at least as he remembered it, kept changing color, and a jhereg kept flying out of it and speaking in Vlad’s voice, saying, “Wait here,” and, “You will feel well-rested, alert, and strong,” and other things which he didn’t remember.
The dream must have had some effect, however, for when he did wake up he felt refreshed and ready. As he prepared for the day he realized with some annoyance that he would have to spend several hours harvesting, and then several more with Master Wag, before he had the chance to find Vlad again and, he hoped, continue where they had left off.
He forgot his annoyance, however, after the morning harvest, when he arrived at the Master’s, because the Master was in one of his touchy moods, and Savn had to concentrate on not giving him an excuse for a tongue-lashing. He spent most of the day listening to an oft-repeated rant to the effect that no one dies without a reason, so Reins couldn’t have, either. Apparently Master Wag had been unable to find this reason, and was consequently upset with himself, Savn, Reins, and the entire world. The only time he seemed pleasant was while scratching Curry’s left arm with the thorn of the blister plant to treat his fever, and even then Savn knew he was in a foul temper, because he simply did it, without giving Savn the lecture that usually accompanied treatment.
After the fifth rant on the subject of causeless death, Savn ventured, “Could it have been sorcery?”
“Of course it could have been sorcery, idiot. But sorcery does something, and whatever it did would leave traces.”
“Oh. What about witchcraft?”
“Eh?”
“Could a witch—”
“What do you know about witchcraft?”
“Nothing,” said Savn honestly. “That’s why I don’t know if—”
“If a witch can do anything at all beyond fooling the gullible, which I doubt, then whatever he did would leave traces, too.”
“Oh.”
Master Wag started to say more, then scowled and retreated into the cellar, where he kept his herbs, splints, knives, and other supplies, and where, presumably, he kept the pieces of Rein’s skin, bone, and hair that he had preserved in order to determine what had happened. Savn felt queasy considering this.
He looked around for something to do in order to take his mind off it, but he’d already cleaned everything in sight, and memorized the Tale of the Man Who Ate Fire so well that the Master had been unable to do anything but grunt upon hearing Savn’s recitation.
He sat down next to the window, realized it was too cold, discovered that he still had at least another hour before he could go home, and put some more wood onto the fire. It crackled pleasantly. He walked around the room, looking over the Master’s collection of books, including On the Number of the Parts of the Body, Knitting of Bones, The Sorcerer’s Art and the Healing of the Self, The Remembered Tales of Calduh, and the others which the Master had consulted from time to time in healing patients or instructing Savn. One book that he had never seen the Master consult was called The Book of the Seven Wizards, a thick, leather-bound volume with the title in gold lettering on the spine. He took it down, went over by the fire, and let it fall open.
It had been written in a neat, even hand, as if the scribe, probably a Lyorn, had attempted to remove all traces of his own personality. The pages were rather thicker than the leaves of many books, and in good condition. It occurred to Savn that Master Wag probably knew a spell to preserve books, so this one could be of any age. At the top of the page, he read: “On the Nature of Secrets.”
He wondered if it were some sort of sign that it had fallen open in that spot—if, in fact, there were some sort of secret to be discovered. Probably not, he decided.
The book told him:
Be aware of power in hidden places, and be aware of that which is apparent, for secrets may lie open to view and yet be concealed. All of the Seven Wizards know of secrets, and each, in his own way, speaks of them, calls to them, and reveals them to those who search diligently and honestly.
Diligently and honestly? he thought. Well, that could be said of everything. What about thoroughly? He turned his eyes back to the book and read:
She Who Is Small finds the secrets of the present in the past; that when the past is known, it is the power of the mage to find Truth in Mystery; that thus is the latter transformed into the former.
It seemed to Savn that he knew very little of the past, and that there must be many secrets indeed that he could discover if he turned to history. He wondered how Master Wag would feel if he asked for a history book. Not today, in any case. He turned back to the book and read:
She Who Is Tall says that the secret is in the song, and opens only to one who dares to sing. It is said that when she sings, the secret is plain to all who listen, but that it is hidden again when the song is past, and few are those who are blessed to hear the echoes of Truth in the Silence that follows.
Well, he liked music well enough, and he liked singing, but there was probably some sort of mystical and powerful meaning in the passage, which he didn’t understand. He shrugged.
The next paragraph read:
She Whose Hair Is Red wraps the secret ever tighter in skeins of words, so that it vanishes as if it never were, and in these layers of words the secret emerges, shining, so that it is hidden to those who look, yet revealed to those who take joy in the unfolding patterns and sounds of words.
There was certainly some mystical and powerful significance to this, and he certainly didn’t understand it. He tried to visualize something being wrapped up in words, but all he got was an image of the black lettering from the book, removed from the page, attaching itself to some undefined thing and smothering it.
He read:
He Whose Eyes Are Green knows where the secret lies, for his eyes pierce every shadowy place; yet he no sooner finds the secret than he buries it anew. But it is said that in the burying the secret has changed, while that which was hidden walks the land ever after, waiting but for one to recognize it, and offer it refuge.
That didn’t make any sense at all. If he knew where the secrets were, why did he want to hide them? And who were these wizards, anyway?
The book went on:
He Whose Hair Is Dark laughs at secrets, for his pleasure is in the search, not the discovery—and the paths he follows in this search stem from whim, not from plan. Some say that in this way he reveals as many as another.
That almost made sense. Savn could imagine how it might be more fun to look for something than to actually find it. He wondered if there was something he was looking for, or something he should look for. The secret to Reins’s death? But he could hardly expect to find that if Master Wag couldn’t.
He continued reading:
Of the Gentle One it is said that she sets down the order and method of all things, and that, in this way, all hidden things may be found. To her, each detail is a signpost, and when each is placed in its own position, the outline of the secret will be laid bare for any who will look.
Well, that was certainly possible, thought Savn. But what do you do when you don’t know anything? There was one more passage on the page:
The Master of Rhyme still searches for the Way of the Wizards, for to him, this is the greatest Secret of all. Yet, as he searches, he lets fall Truths for all of those who come after, and in this he sees no miracle, for what is plain to one is a Secret to the next. He is often praised for this, but it is meaningless to him, for who among Men will rejoice in finding Truth that he has never thought hidden?
Savn frowned. That, too, almost made sense. It was as if you could see something, and maybe someone else couldn’t, but to you it wasn’t anything to get excited about, because it was right there all the time.
It occurred to him to wonder if there were things right in front of him that he couldn’t see. He was pondering this when Master Wag returned and said, “What are you reading?”
Savn showed him the book. The Master snorted. “There’s nothing in there you need, at least not yet. Why don’t you go home?”
Savn didn’t need to be given this suggestion twice. He put the book on the shelf, said farewell, and dashed out the door before the Master could change his mind.
He raced to Tem’s house, expecting to see Vlad either lounging outside or in the common room, but the Easterner was not in evidence. As he stood there, wondering whether he dared to ask Tem which room Vlad was in, his sister walked through the door, accompanied by two of her friends, which caused him, for reasons he couldn’t quite specify, to abandon this plan.
She came up to him at once and pulled him into a corner. “What happened to you last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“You were gone forever. Mae and Pae were going crazy. I finally went to bed, and when I got up this morning and asked if you’d shown up, they looked at me like they didn’t know what I was talking about and said that you were already up and out.”
“Well, I was.”
“That’s not the point, chag-brain.”
“Don’t call me chag-brain.”
“Where were you?”
“Exploring the caves.”
“At night?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“But why were you so late?”
“I lost track of time.”
She frowned at him, clearly unsatisfied with the answer, but uncertain how to find out more. “Well, then,” she said, “don’t you think Mae and Pae were acting a little strange, the way they were so worried at first, and then—”
“Oh, you know how they get. Look, I’ll talk to you later, all right? I have to go.”
“Go where? Savn, stop it. Don’t you dare go running off like that! Savn ...”
Her voice followed him out the door, but he paid no attention. The only place he could think of to find Vlad was back at the caves, so he set off for them at once. He followed the Manor road for the first mile, then cut across to the slip. As he was about to start down it, however, he saw, some distance away, a grey-clad figure standing on the cliff itself. He broke into a run, and at about the same moment he became convinced that it was indeed Vlad, the Easterner turned and waved to him, as if he’d known he was there.
When he reached him, he said nothing, only stopped to recover his breath. Vlad stood, staring out at the river flats so far below them, dotted with people bathing, washing clothes, or just talking. Savn tried to view the scene as if it were new; the river rushing in from the right, turning sharply around the Black Rocks, foaming white, then suddenly widening into the flats, brown against tan, then narrowing gradually once more as it cut down into the plains and began turning south, toward the sea, many impossible hundreds of miles away.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Savn.
“Is it?” said Vlad, without turning his head.
“Don’t you think so?”
“Maybe. Nature usually doesn’t excite me very much. I’m impressed by what man makes of his world, not what we started with.”
“Oh.” Savn considered. “I guess I’m just the opposite.”
“Yes.”
“Does it matter?”
Vlad looked at him, and something like amusement glittered for a moment in his eyes. Then he turned back to watching the river. “Yes and no,” he said. “A couple of years ago “i met a philosopher who told me that those like me build, while those like you take more pleasure in life.”
“Aren’t there those who like both?”
“Yes. According to this lady, they become artists.”
“Oh. Do you enjoy life?”
“Me? Yes, but I’m naturally lucky.”
“Oh.” Savn thought back to what the Easterner told him the night before. “You must be, to still be alive with people trying to kill you.”
“Oh, no. That isn’t luck. I’m alive because I’m good enough to survive.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“I’m lucky that, living the way I do, with people trying to kill me, I can still take pleasure in life. Not everyone can, and I think if you can’t, there isn’t much you can do about it.”
“Oh. I’ve never met a philosopher.”
“I hope you do some day; they’re always worth talking to.”
“Pae says such things are a waste of time.”
“Your Pae, I’m sorry to say, is wrong.”
“Why?”
“Because everything is worth examining, and if you don’t examine your view of the world, you are still subject to it, and you find yourself doing things that—never mind.”
“I think I understand.”
“Do you? Good.” After a moment he said, as if to himself, “I learned a lot from that lady. I was sorry I had to kill her.”
Savn looked at him, but the Easterner didn’t seem to be joking. They continued watching the River Flats and said nothing more for a while.
Chapter Five
I will not marry a blessing priest,
I will not marry a blessing priest,
In his devotions I’d be least.
Hi-dee hi-dee ho-la!
Step on out ...
They were close enough so that Savn could identify some of the people below, more by how they dressed and moved than by their features. There were a few whose names he knew, but he knew none of the people well, and for the first time he wondered why that was. Smallcliff was closer to Bigcliff than to either Whiterock or Notthereyet, but those were the places he had visited, and from a little traveling and from his work with Master Wag, he knew a few people who lived in each of those villages; but the dwellers below were strangers, even those he could identify and had spoken with.
Mae and Pae hardly ever mentioned them at all, except for an occasional reference Pae made to its being filthy to bathe in the same place that you wash your clothes. Yet when those from below came to visit Master Wag, they seemed pleasant enough, and Savn didn’t see any difference.
Odd, though, that he’d never thought about it before. Next to him, Vlad was watching them with single-minded concentration that reminded Savn of something he’d seen once, long ago, but couldn’t quite remember. He felt something akin to fear as he made the comparison, however.
“Vlad?” said Savn at last.
“Yes?”
“Those people are ... never mind.”
“They are what?”
Savn haltingly tried to tell the Easterner what he’d been thinking about them, but he couldn’t seem to find the right words, so eventually he shrugged and fell silent.
Vlad said, “Are they also vassals of Baron Smallcliff?”
“Yes. He’s also the Baron of Bigcliff.”
Vlad nodded. “What else?”
“I don’t know. I know that someone else is lord over in Whiterock, though. A Dzurlord. We hear stories about him.”
“Oh? What kind of stories?”
“Not very nice ones. You have to work his fields two days of the week, even in the bad years when it takes everything to keep your own going, and he doesn’t care how hard that makes it for you, or even if you starve, and sometimes he does things that, well, I don’t really know about because they say I’m too young to know about them, but they’re pretty awful. His tax collectors can beat you whenever they want, and you can’t do anything about it. And his soldiers will kill you if you get in their way, and when the Speaker tried to complain to the Empire they had him killed, and things like that.”
“Things like that don’t happen here?”
“Well, the tax collectors can be pretty mean sometimes, but not that bad. We’re lucky here.”
“I suppose so.”
They fell silent again. Vlad continued staring down at the River Flats. Eventually Savn said, “Vlad, if you aren’t enjoying nature, what are you doing?”
“Watching the people.”
“They’re odd,” said Savn.
“So you said. But you didn’t tell me in what way they’re odd.”
Savn opened his mouth and shut it. He didn’t want to pass on what Mae and Pae said about them, because he was sure Vlad would just think he was being small-minded. He finally said, “They talk funny.”
Vlad glanced at him. “Funny? How?”
“Well, there used to be a tribe of Serioli who lived down there. They only moved away a few hundred years ago, and until then they lived right next to the people from Bigcliff, and they’d talk all the time, and—”
“And the people from Bigcliff use Serioli words?”
“Not when they talk to us. But it’s, that, well, they put their words together different than we do.”
“Can you understand them?”
“Oh, sure. But it sounds strange.”
“Hmmm,” said Vlad.
“What are you watching them for?”
“I’m not certain. A way to do something I have to do.”
“Why do you always talk that way?”