Avelune, page 14
“Ah, forgive me. I’ve only just received word myself and I am not . . .” The elder rubbed a hand across his face. “The City Guard has captured the man responsible for the theft of rare books in the city. I’m on my way to Aelend Prison. Will you come?”
The thief responsible for stealing rare books: the one the heretics claimed was responsible for stealing Riana’s maps and for poisoning her Arionade, the one who sought to unravel the world.
“Of course I’ll come. But why are you here? Why did the City Guard not send a message?”
“Perhaps they will. Though if Elder Abrigado gets to him, I doubt it. The thief is Shorn. A young man. They only sent for me as Minister of the Teaching. I thought of you.”
She turned to Rien. “Fetch Commander Evorales. We are going to Aelend.”
“Yes, Lady. Should I tell Captain Rom?”
Rom would be in his quarters, by now wondering why she had not come to him. The thief with his poison had stolen not only Riana’s sacred maps, but Rom’s strength and health, and nearly his life. He could not help her in this, and she had nothing but torment for him. “Leave the captain to his morning duties.”
Rien bowed his head and hurried off, revealing nothing of what he knew of his injured captain’s duties. For that, he rose a notch in Nemiah’s estimation.
She wrapped her arms about herself beneath her fur-lined cloak. In the mountains, the drizzle would be turning to snow, and the air shivered with the promise of that cold. The elder waited in silence beside her, all his friendly vigor frozen into something painfully detached.
“The thief. Where did they catch him?” she asked.
“At the home of the Secretary of Records. An apt target, as it happens. His family library contains several volumes considered the last of their kind.”
“Our thief is well-informed then.”
“No doubt. The Shorn in this city receive a thorough education.”
Nemiah winced at the self-recrimination in the elder’s tone. The allegations of treason against his fosterling and Jhared Denaban’s subsequent escape had destroyed Tierzen’s influence in the council and with the high chieftain. That he still held his position as Minister of the Teaching Nemiah suspected was a testament to the disorder in the council more than any will to keep him in power. She had come to understand the elder well enough to realize that this Shorn thief struck yet another blow against his hopes for the Teaching. He had meant for the Teaching to save Avelos from the Shorn and to save the Shorn from themselves. Tierzen couldn’t know that all his hopes were based on lies. He knew only that she had made it possible for his condemned fosterling to flee.
“Elder Trianor, I did not expect you to greet me again with anything but questions and antipathy.”
“Lady Nemiah, if it were possible for you to answer my questions you would have done so already. As for antipathy . . .” He shrugged loosely. “If your intent were malicious, you could have caused me equal damage without incriminating yourself. Therefore, I must assume that some other motive—pity perhaps—drove you to act as you did. Ultimately, however, the choices of the deserter derived from the flaws in my Teaching and in his character. I do not hold you culpable.”
The man’s precise, unemotional analysis disturbed her far more than his rage would have done. The deserter. A young man he had raised as his son. Again, she felt Amalia’s truth pressing for release.
“What pity I have is for us all,” she replied.
The elder’s gaze on hers remained devastatingly direct and considering. It was the same unforgiving intensity his fosterling possessed. Nemiah wondered if he knew.
Whatever the man might have said next was cut short by the appearance of Commander Evorales. Understanding they were to descend from Travitar Hill and cross the clan circles to Aelend Prison, the commander offered to prepare the Lady’s litter, or failing that, to call for her mount and a full escort. Nemiah refused both. For the elder’s sake, she wished to draw as little notice as possible. None were likely to molest them with two armed Arionade as guardians, and the man responsible for attacking the temple had apparently been caught. Evorales capitulated with a strained expression. Nemiah nodded to Elder Trianor and they set out on foot.
Aelend Prison was an ancient gargoyle of stone and wood that sprawled against the city wall. Some believed the oldest sections of the structure had been built in the time of Alende Isan to serve as a garrison. The unreachable guard posts near the top of the two round towers lent some weight to such a belief. It still provided garrison and offices for the City Guard, but since well before the Exile, Aelend’s primary purpose was to confine the men and women deemed dangerous to Avelos. Thick, thorny vines caged the dull grey stone, and a row of arrow loops squinted through the drizzle. As they were meant to do, the scourging columns came into view from as far away as the streets of the clan circles: five columns in the outer yard, arranged in a half-circle. Rain ran in red droplets from the rusting iron chains bolted near the crown of each column and left bloody stains on the ground. The stones of Aelend had witnessed centuries of suffering. Tumal had favored the prison as a place to punish and store away those who opposed him. From the prison gate, those named traitors began their march to the steps of the wall to be—
Nemiah stumbled, struck by a nightmare realization: she had been here. Aelend would have been Amalia’s last, terrible home. The sensation of a dark cell closed around Nemiah, and with it, the despair of the generous Avelun who had become her friend. Nemiah would never forget the battered woman chained to the floor, the long night when she had offered her own inadequate song as comfort, or the moment when she understood that Amalia had never shaped a plot against Lord Tumal.
“Lady, are you well?” Evorales had moved to her shoulder. Concern echoed in his tone.
She breathed slowly. Cold sweat trickled between her breasts. “Perfectly, Commander.”
Elder Trianor did not look at her or at the row of scourging columns. “It sickens me as well,” he declared, marching resolutely toward the gate.
The captain of the prison guard, a block-shaped man with a shining pate, recognized the elder and let them in without fuss, leading them past a small guardroom, where a handful of men ate and diced, past a number of offices, then down a set of slippery stairs and into the heart of the prison. The air grew dank and heavy with the odor of decaying wood and abused bodies. Black, moldy walls gave way to a series of barred doors. With a shudder, Nemiah wondered about the men and women who lay behind each door. Who other than a Shorn thief who poisoned the innocent servants of Riana deserved such treatment? She thought of Amalia, who hadn’t deserved it at all, and shuddered again. The guard stopped halfway down a corridor and fumbled with the bar before drawing open a door. Nemiah stood, cold and ill, at the threshold.
No sound came from within the cell. The guard lifted his lamp, throwing a film of light over a floor of damp stone, a low pallet of hay, and a prisoner curled on the hay like an injured animal.
Nemiah rounded on the guard. “What have you done? This is no corrupt Shorn man. He’s no more than a helpless child!”
“He may be young, but helpless he is not.” The guard rubbed his jaw. “And he was thieving. That’s certain. Caught him crawling out’a window with the books.”
“Where are his Teachers?” Elder Trianor demanded, ashen in the wan light.
“Don’t know. He wouldn’t say. That’s why we sent for you. Don’t make me out as some monster what takes pleasure in beating children. I only did what I had to.”
“Let us in,” Elder Trianor said, his voice hard and flat.
The guard stood aside. Nemiah followed the elder, who gestured the lamp closer. As the light dropped on the boy, he scrambled upright. He was ten winters, maybe eleven, but no child’s roundness remained in his long, gaunt frame. A mat of black hair fell over his hunted gaze. Bruises and scrapes discolored his cheeks. His clothes might have been made from sturdy, colorful fabric of the type the mountain folk wove, but were now limp and grey with dirt. His wrists stuck out from the frayed sleeves.
“What’s your name, boy?”
The wary green eyes took in the elder and then Nemiah. “Who are ya?”
“Elder Tierzen Trianor. I am the Minister of the Teaching. This is the Lady of Avelos.”
“Are ya here ta take me ta the wall?”
“No, boy. We’re not here to punish you. We’re here to learn what happened. You’re from the northern mountains, aren’t you? Is that Clan Hilera I hear in your words?”
The boy shot a nervous glance at the guard, then back to the elder. The prefect of Clan Hilera had not joined the rest of the northern five in the uprising at Parnas Pass, but neither had the clan yet denounced its neighbors for their treason. Nemiah wondered how much a Shorn child understood of his people’s precarious position.
“Yes,” the boy said bravely. “Hilera.”
“You’re a long way from your clan. Tell me your name. Why were you stealing books?”
“Elder, slow down. Look at him. The boy is swaying with hunger.” Nemiah turned to the guard. “What have you and your comrades for lunch?”
“Oats and a bit of lamb, Lady. But I don’t—”
“You can spare a plate for the child. And some fresh water for him to clean up.”
The guard puffed himself like a porcupine, ready to protest, but after a moment he deflated. “Very well, Lady. Right away.”
Nemiah and Tierzen waited while the boy first washed his grimy hands and face with a care that suggested a civilized upbringing, then fell upon the bowl of hot porridge with a ferocity that suggested too long living with deprivation. He bolted his food, one arm wrapped around the bowl possessively. Only after scarfing every drop did he look up.
“What happened, child?” Nemiah asked gently. “Won’t you tell me how you came to be so far from home?”
Perhaps it was because hers was the first kind voice the boy had heard in Aelend or perhaps the strain of keeping silent finally snapped his caution. He began to blurt out his story. His name was Jholan. He had traveled to Velantar for the fall gathering with his family and many of his clan. When the killing winds struck the city on Dawnings’ Day, his mother, father, and younger sister had all been slain. For weeks, he had searched for his Teachers, but presumed them dead as well. Knowing no one and having no coin, he had no way to travel home. Instead, he had become one of the multitudes of displaced children, scrambling about the wreckage in the poorest parts of the city, hiding, thieving, and clinging to the ragged remainder of his life.
The boy ended his story with his arms crossed over his thin chest. Although bravado stiffened his words, his expression was all over bewilderment, like a friendly puppy kicked by a stranger.
“Who hired you to steal the books?” Elder Trianor asked.
“Didn’t say anything ’bout someone hiring me,” the boy protested. “Books are treasures. My Teachers always told me so. I thought someone might buy ’em.”
“You thought so, eh?” Elder Trianor sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Jholan, your Teachers were right: books are treasures. And what did they tell you about the lies of a Shorn boy?”
The child swallowed and stared past the elder without speaking.
“Jholan, you know what you owe to Avelos,” Elder Trianor said soberly. “You know what you owe your family. What would they say if they saw you now? You’ve committed a great wrong. There is a need for reparation.”
The boy remained drawn up straight, but his face screwed tight, as though to force back tears. Nemiah’s heart broke.
“Elder, that’s not right. Please, stop this!”
A dagger glance from the man silenced her. In that glance, his own heartbreak was exposed. His fosterling had been meant for this prison.
“For the memory of your family, Jholan, tell me why you stole the books.”
It was too much. With a small cry of defeat, the boy sank into himself, knees to chest, head bowed. “A man wanted them. He had silver. He told me and some’a the other boys he would pay if we stole the oldest books from Elders’ Circle. He told us the houses we should try.”
“Who was this man?”
“Don’t know.” A flash of defiance, then a groan of surrender. “Said he worked for the king’a Sona. Said he was a royal agent. I’m no fool. I know the swamp rats don’t have a king. He looked and spoke like a clansman, sure enough, but I didn’t care about that. He had real silver.”
“Do you know where he can be found?” the elder asked.
A hard, quick head shake. Fear in the gesture. The elder opened his mouth as though to prod again, but Nemiah restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.
“He threatened to harm you, didn’t he?” she said to the boy. “If you reveal him.”
A small nod.
Nemiah pressed her lips together. “What can we do for him, Elder?”
Elder Trianor bowed his head, as if in some internal debate, before speaking again. “Jholan, if you tell us all you know of this man, I will see you are sent back safely to your people in Clan Hilera.”
A long pause, then the boy held up his hand. “He told us ta call him Lusian, like the hero in the stars. I don’t think that was his name. He just liked ta be called hero. He could fight. And he had only two fingers on his left hand.”
“Was he Shorn?” The elder’s tone was implacable.
“Yes . . . no . . . I can’t say. He looked like one’a us, but he didn’t talk like any bound man I know.”
Nemiah met the Shorn boy’s gaze. “Did the man ever speak of the temple or encourage you to steal from Riana?”
“Oh yes,” Jholan said, wide-eyed. “He spoke evil words against our Lady. Called her things not right ta say about any lady. He boasted he would sneak right inta the temple and take what he wanted. Said he’d take a girl or two as well, if he fancied it.” The boy scowled. “He liked ta boast. He liked us all ta follow him and tell him fine things about himself. He was more dags than wool, my mama would say . . . would’a said.” Jholan’s scowl deepened and he dropped into a sad silence.
“I’m sorry, child,” Nemiah said quietly, her thoughts raging. “I’m so sorry we failed to help you before it came to this.”
It didn’t take long to draw out the rest of what Jholan knew about the clansman who was turning children into thieves. For what purpose, the boy truly didn’t seem to know. It was clear enough the child himself hadn’t anything to do with the theft at the temple. Nemiah thought of the woman who had claimed she knew about such things. According to the heretic Yarla, the theft of books had nothing to do with the passive people of little Sona. It had to do with madness and True Chaos.
When the boy had no more to share, Elder Trianor informed the captain of the guard that they would be taking the Shorn prisoner with them. The guard showed no surprise, but appeared suddenly as though he wished himself someplace else.
“Of course, Elder Trianor. If you would just pass me the order from Chief Karwen for the boy’s release, he can go with you.”
Elder Trianor did not move or display an ounce of uncertainty. “The order does not come from your prison chief. It comes from the Minister of the Teaching. Every Shorn child before the age of his Becoming is in my charge. The authority to take custody of the boy rests with me.”
Jholan stood stiff and straight beside the elder. The captain shifted his square frame. “Not in this case, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Elder Trianor. I’m not to allow you to take the boy.”
Nemiah had witnessed Elder Trianor angry before. He did not bluster or growl. Everything about him grew still and sharp. “Who gave that order, captain?”
“Elder, I have no argument with you. You know it. I always—”
“Who?”
The captain straightened. Whatever his ambivalence about balking an elder of the council, he was doing his job and knew it. “Minister Rud. Take it up with him, if you like.”
Gilior Rud was the council elder for Clan Makri, the Minister of Prisons, and a stalwart ally of Toren Abrigado. Nemiah grew lightheaded with her own anger.
“I see,” Tierzen said calmly. “The minister told you to send for me. Then he warned you I would want to take the boy.”
“Elder, it’s time for you and the Lady to be on your way,” the captain responded woodenly. “This Shorn creature is a thief and will stay safely detained until he’s sentenced.”
Nemiah stepped toward the guard. “Captain, the Lady of Avelos—”
“Has no say here!” the man cried. “I made allowance for you, Lady, because you came with the elder, but we’ll not let another of our prisoners disappear into the temple. No! Nor escape into the wilds either. Come along, now. Both of you. Don’t make me call my men.”
There was a soft, stifled whimper. Jholan. He hadn’t moved from the elder’s side.
Something raw flashed in Elder Trianor’s expression when he looked down at the Shorn boy, but he wiped it away with one pass of his hand. “It all goes toward reparation, child. Just think on that. I’ll return for you.”
Jholan’s chin rose and he turned his back. “That’s what my papa said before he sent me inta the city and died in the killing winds.”
There was nothing for it. Nemiah laid a blessing on the boy. Then she unclasped her cloak and pulled it from her shoulders. Elder Trianor stopped her before she could give it to the child, his own cloak of thick, warm wool already in his hands. He draped it around Jholan. Nemiah nodded. She had no choice then but to let the captain of the guard, with his sword and the threat of his nearby garrison, herd her out of the cell. Before she stepped free of Aelend Prison, she halted once more. The ring on her little finger was cunningly wrought of silver, with a precise spiral twisted around a skystone of cerulean. It had been a gift from Rom’s niece, a piece of her own crafting. Nemiah dropped it into the captain’s palm.
