The Seekers of Fire Page 11

  With an arm around her shoulders, Rianor extended the other hand towards the door, and without thinking about it, she extended hers as well. Together, they grabbed the handle and the door silently opened, and even though somewhere far away the imprints of samodivi, witches, and others still echoed, Rianor's reassuring hand kept them from coming too close.

  Rianor

  Morning 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

  Rianor squinted his eyes, trying to dissipate the blurriness brought by the sudden change of brightness outside the Healers' Passage. Something was not right here, but he could not tell what it was. All seemed normal.

  His body was not all right, either. He forced himself to be steady as he felt his spent lady apprentice go limp in his arms, then lifted her and carried her to the stove.

  "Get warm first, Linde, then I will take you somewhere more comfortable." He helped her to a bare metal chair, but she did not seem to notice the lack of upholstery. She stared at the stove, instead, her teeth clattering, then gingerly reached towards it but recoiled immediately. Her hands felt even colder than before.

  "This is just the scullery, Linde, not the kitchen. You can touch." He put one of his own hands on the stove, the other one remaining on hers. "They don't cook here. The room is connected to the kitchen, so no fabrics and other combustibles are allowed unless a Master Cook is around, but the stoves are normal. Nothing has caught fire here in my lifetime. I myself have never seen a flame."

  She seemed to not understand at first, then cringed, her body shaking, her gaze darting towards where they had come from as if she would try to scramble back to the Healers' door. Then, suddenly, she leaned forward and gripped the stove with both hands, clinging until her knuckles were white.

  "Linde, calm down." Rianor put an arm around her shoulders, both for comfort and for holding her if she did decide to run. "We are safe now."

  Safe in Qynnsent's residence, which, like all seats of Noble Houses, was protected by Ber trickery and encased away from the rest of the world. Rianor did not know how that was done. He had asked questions as a child, but the answers he invariably received were in the style of "the Master's ways are unfathomable." When he had noted that the Master's ways had to least to be fathomable to the Bers, since it was them who had worked on the House, his parents told him that he would learn when he grew up and gave him more Science books to distract him.

  The Lord and Lady of Qynnsent had obviously not anticipated that Science would provide some answers but even more questions for their son; had not intended the direction he would choose to go with it. Or maybe they had. He could not ask them.

  Linden's head was bent now, her face huddled against his shoulder.

  "I will calm down in a moment," she whispered, "I am sorry. It would make sense, of course, that there is a kitchen in a Noble House. Of course, there was only one in our neighborhood and, of course, you hear many things about it and you can never go inside—and the thought of a kitchen was too much for me a moment ago. You know that I have seen flames now."

  She shook her head. "Yet, I need fire, everyone does. I wanted to run away just now, and yet I am not even certain that it was me who would have run. I don't want to ever again go inside this Passage, how can Dad walk it at all—Oh, Master ..." Her shoulders shook in what most probably was an invisible sob. "Rianor, I left Mom and Dad, and I don't even know the outside way home. Oh, Master, what did I do? I just left them like that, and they have done nothing, and now I don't know ..."

  So he was not the only one thinking about parents. Her next whisper sounded beaten, almost inaudible. "These people cannot just kill them. They cannot just die."

  "I will try to help them, I promise." The words were heavy in his throat, since there was little help he could now give. He had analyzed the situation while being bandaged by her father and had offered to shelter the whole family, but her parents, Kelley and Ellard, had flatly refused. They had decided to at least temporarily remain in their home and hinder anyone who would try to pursue their daughter, instead of becoming what they had called prisoners of Qynnsent.

  Perhaps they were right. Acquiring the documents to offer a House's protection to a commoner who also happened to be a Commander of Life and Death would draw too much attention, while without them Ellard would only be safe on the House's land. Ellard had made his choice, and so had Kelley, who had not even considered fleeing or seeking protection without him.

  Rianor was not at all prepared to explain their choices to their daughter. In her current condition, she would probably not understand, as Rianor himself had not understood years ago.

  "I will send someone there," he said gently, omitting that this someone would probably only observe the result of the night's events. "Please, try to not think about this now, Linde. Rest a minute or two, and then let us go. And"—he paused—"your home is here now."

  She raised her head to look at him then, the light of the wall lanterns illuminating her face, her bright eyes deep and full of so many things that one could watch them for a long time without losing interest—or understanding them.

  "Thank you, Rianor," she just said, and then, "So it becomes a home for a witch, then. You are looking at me in the same way as when you called me one."

  Rianor sighed. "Linde, I am sorry that I frightened you then. You surprised me for a moment. You—" He sought the right words to express one of his reasons—the intellectual one. "You are smart, Science-minded and insightful. You seem to seek a Scientific explanation of the world around you. Then, suddenly, despite treading a Scientific path of thoughts, despite trying to extract meaningful rules, you reached an idea that witches had entertained centuries before you. What I quoted to you came from a tattered rhyme book that I found in a hidden alcove in the House's library. A witch book that someone has seen fit to protect from Ber burnings, though some pages are missing, and I think a part of the rhyme I quoted is missing, too."

  Rianor resisted the urge to glance at the stove and especially at the door to the kitchen. One could burn books there. Perhaps it had even happened. The House was old, and so was the kitchen.

  "Fixed invisible connections, Linde, and non-living entities having a life of their own—you are not the first to think about this, but you might as well be the first to mix it with Science and to want to actually abstract the rules. Linde—" Rianor held her chin and made her look at him, his eyes meeting an amber abyss of blinding light and shadows that had nothing to do with the light and shadows in the room.

  "Linde, I want to know about these things. Why does Magic pervade this world so much that everything from what we eat to what we think depends on it, and yet we know next to nothing about it? Magic is a mystery that only a chosen few can cope with, the Bers say, but is it truly so? Are there rules in Magic? I am sick and tired of the Bers hoarding knowledge while everyone else walks in ignorance and blindness! Magic is failing nowadays—why?" He looked aside. "Besides, I want to know more about the essence of life."

  He had stressed the word "life" too much, but she did not ask what exactly he wanted to know about it. He was grateful. He had already told her more than he had ever told anyone else.

  "Reprobate." She smiled at him softly, the abyss in her eyes melting into warm shapes that looked like clouds at sunrise. "Finally, it is not only me."

  She placed her hand in his, still smiling, and Rianor felt calmer than a minute ago, almost at ease.

  "We can learn about Magic and life, Rianor, how can anyone stop us?"

  At that moment, he believed that it would not even be difficult.

  * * *

  Despite her insistence that she could walk, he lifted Linden to carry her to the House Proper. Just as he did, the door to the kitchen swung open.

  Rianor barely ducked when he stepped through that door and a boyish shape leaped against him. An attack inside Qynnsent was most unexpected, and with his eyes still blurred and sensitive to light and his hands busy, the already wounded High Lord of the House har
dly managed to kick at his opponent. His boot met something soft just as cold steel brushed his ear, and with a surprised exclamation the attacker tried to jerk aside. Then the boy stiffened in place just as Linden shifted in Rianor's arms, a moment before Rianor recognized him. It was not a boy but a young man.

  "Don't move!" Linden gasped in Rianor's other ear, her body shaking, but her voice full of command. Momentarily startled by a tone he was not used to, Rianor obeyed. He felt the steel move away from him as Linden shifted again.

  "Now," she snapped louder, her arms strained around Rianor, "all of you slowly throw the weapons to the floor, or I will sever the hand of the man who attacked us!"

  A woman shouted at the opposite end of the kitchen, and as Rianor raised his eyes, a throwing knife hit the floor with a thud. Nan, the nurse who had raised him, stared at him, her hands trembling and her plump face shocked with fear and recognition. Lord Desmond, First Counselor of Qynnsent, stood erect beside her, obstructing the door towards the stairs. His own knife was steady in his hand.

  "Rianor!" the old woman screamed. "No, Brendan, don't—" Then, noticing that young Brendan, the kitchen guard, was the one presently in more danger, she shouted Rianor's name again. Brendan swore behind Rianor's head, and Linden's arms strained even more. The lord could feel her heart beating wildly.

  "Be silent!" she shouted, and although her voice was discordant, her arms never wavered in their grip. "And you sir, surrender the weapon! I can cut the boy before you can throw the knife at us!" Then, breathing heavily, she whispered so that only Rianor could hear. "Can you withdraw your knife or mine?"

  Rianor squeezed her gently, his mind racing about what he could do before someone was seriously hurt. He could not see Linden's hands behind his neck, but he was almost certain about what she had done. When Brendan had threatened him with the knife, she had snared the young man's wrist the way Rianor had taught her, and claimed the knife for herself. But right now she was not the most dangerous person in the room. His First Counselor was still staring at him as if he were a stranger, and Rianor had the disturbing feeling that recognition was too much delayed, even considering his blooded face and clothes.

  "Desmond, do not throw a knife at me, if you would please."

  He locked Desmond's eyes with his, his voice soft but carrying a certain edge that always chilled those who heard it. "And you may certainly not throw it at my lady apprentice."

  Desmond hesitated, and Rianor's eyes narrowed, never leaving those of the other man, although his other senses registered both Linden's trembling and Brendan's stillness. Then, after a long moment, Desmond's knife hand drooped, and the eye contact was broken.

  "It must truly be you, then. The eyes are yours and no one can imitate eyes deeply enough. Welcome back, High Lord of Qynnsent."

  Rianor shifted all his attention to Linden, tenderness mixed with the command in his voice.

  "Let go of Brendan, my lady. He indeed serves me, although he did give another first impression."

  "Let go, Linde," he said more firmly when her grip did not flinch, and at last her hands started shaking like the rest of her. She released Brendan's wrist, and the knife slipped between her fingers.

  "Retrieve your knives before someone has stepped on them," Rianor ordered, then closed his eyes, overcome with relief and a surge of weariness. Then Linden wriggled in an attempt to inhale, and he comprehended the reason only after someone pulled her away from him, while someone else grabbed his shoulders and ushered him to a chair. He had been clinging to her with a force that might have crushed her chest, and he had felt no pain himself, only numbness somewhere far away.

  Voices came from far away, too, together with the sensation of hands holding his. One was plump, warm and steady; a hand that had always been there for him with comfort, assurance, and the occasional slap. The other one was slim and delicate, and unsettlingly shaky and hot to his touch. She had been so cold only minutes ago ... Rianor felt wetness on his forehead as the plump hand disappeared, and he slowly opened his eyes. Nan's profile materialized before him, a wrinkle of worry crossing her usually smooth cheek, as she reached with a wet cloth towards the figure in the other chair.

  "What—" he managed to whisper before a new wet cloth was pressed to his mouth, and Nan shook her head at him as her other hand cleansed Linden's face. Then, leaving something white and smelly on the girl's forehead, she transferred to Rianor again, her nimble fingers massaging the back of his head before they quickly ran all over his body.

  "You will have headaches for many days to come," she said with a tone trained to hide concern well. "And you will have to be careful with those ribs." She shook her head again, and when she spoke her voice was trembling. "Rianor, dear, if you had but hit your head a centimeter to the side—"

  "I might have died, I know," he snapped, the trembling voice and her screaming from before having unsettled him. Nan was quick to temper, but only a dire situation could make her lose so much control.

  "I did not die, Nan," he added, more gently. "So this is not important. What is important is why on Mierenthia you attacked us."

  "Later," a voice replied from his other side, and Desmond stepped beside him, trailed by Brendan. Desmond looked calm, but the young guard was flushed, never quite looking in Rianor's direction. How old was he? Eighteen or nineteen, and too eager to prove himself, which was why Master Keitaro had made him guard the kitchen, to learn patience.

  The kitchen was dangerous, but its dangers were not of the kind best repelled by soldiers. The kitchen was already guarded, in better ways, by Nan and the Master Cooks, who took turns to sleep there at night.

  Yet, why had Rianor not known about the Passage door—why had he not known that there was a need for soldiers in the kitchen, after all?

  Brendan was right to fear now. He had attacked his High Lord, which would usually mean that it was now up to the Bers to decide his fate. However, Brendan's High Lord knew that it was Brendan's job to guard against strangers, and a stranger Rianor had looked to be, even to Desmond. It had not been a personal attack, especially given that Nan seemed to trust the guard even now. Nan could appraise people better than anyone, and she also loved Rianor more than anything in the world.

  "It is fine." Rianor turned to the young man. "No Bers for you tonight, but for next time learn to watch and to think before you brandish a knife."

  The guard bowed silently, his throat too choked for words.

  Nan had meanwhile bent to examine Linden's body the way she had examined Rianor's.

  "Can you hear me, dear?" The old nurse gently pulled the skin below Linden's eyes to look at the whites, then rubbed the girl's temples with the foul-smelling cloth, her wrinkles of worry growing deeper. Rianor stood up. His free hand grabbed the edge of the table as acute pain pierced his chest, while his other hand continued holding Linden's. She was still shaking. Her face looked even more bruised now that it was cleaner, and sweat diluted the white paste Nan had administered. Ironically, Brendan's attack, an attack inside Qynnsent, was what had finally defeated her tonight.

  Linden did not reply when Nan called her again, and a second later her body sagged lifelessly back. Rianor's grip was the only thing still keeping her on the chair. Quickly, he lifted her and made her lie on her back on the table, cushioning her head with his hand.

  "Rianor, move aside and let me take care of her," Nan spoke beside him, but for a moment he ignored her, suddenly afraid and not trusting Nan's ability to save her; suddenly, irrationally, knowing that he was the reason for Linden's state and that he should be the one to help her. He gripped the Water of Life vial in his pocket and snatched it out.

  He stilled his hand just before he would have forced a drop of water into Linden's mouth. What was he doing? He still did not know how the water worked or what the samodiva's game was; he did not know if the water would help or kill his apprentice. Giving her the water was an impulse, and the High Lord of Qynnsent must have learned by know to never act upon those. Linden's eyes
snapped open, while Nan gave a muffled scream, her usually rosy complexion now white like snow.

  "I thought you would finally faint," Linden breathed, then managed a fraction of a smile. "But you are all right."

  "It was you who fainted, my lady, but you did great otherwise." Rianor smiled back, and she seemed to relax.

  Another person had not relaxed at all. Fingers gripped Rianor's elbow, and Nan's voice hissed at his side, fear mixed with the unquestioned authority that she had not tried to use on him for many years.

  "Boy, what have you done!?"

  He turned to face the woman who was dearer to him than most other people, and his eyes grew hard as hers stayed fixed on the vial.

  "Do you demand an account of my affairs, Nan?" he asked in the same voice he had used on Desmond and sensed how much that distressed the old woman only because he knew her so well. But her outward appearance remained unchanged, except that she watched the vial as if she did not know whether she wanted to destroy or protect it. Trapping her eyes with his, Rianor placed the small piece of glass in his pocket.

  "It was a long time ago that you could do this, dear Nan," he continued softly. "Now it is you who is accountable to me." He paused, glancing at Desmond's unreadable face and Linden and Brendan's apprehensive ones, then glared back at Nan. "I would know how you recognized this water, and what your connection to those that make use of it is."

  Slowly, Nan released Rianor's elbow, her eyes focused somewhere on his throat, never quite meeting his.

  "Rianor, dear—My lord."

  Had she ever called him that, except on the day his parents had died, the day of his High Ruler Inauguration?

  Her voice was calm with the barest hint of resolve. "There were rules that would have bound me to not answer your questions, my lord, but you have already broken them yourself by your way of entrance. I will speak, so that you all know." She signed. "Rianor dear, I have never lied to you, and I have never been a Commander, but I could have become one, a long time ago. That is why I recognize the water—"