The Long Look, page 13
part #1 of The Laws of Power Series
Lady Margate shrugged. "Perhaps. Though I wouldn’t count my life against it. Nor will I guarantee to share what I have learned. Your pardon, Sir, but I feel you have been honest with me and I must return the favor. My first loyalty is to Morushe and its Royal House of course, but what I feel for Ashesa is beyond loyalty. I’ll do nothing to harm her, whatever purpose it serves. Do I make myself clear?"
Tals nodded. "I expected no less, and I seek no more. Yet I know you realize the situation as it stands serves no one, save enemies of both Morushe and Borasur. One way or another, it must be resolved."
"We don’t even know what ‘it’ may be."
Tals went back to the wine. "All the more reason, and this is the nut of it so far as I’m concerned. How can you defend against a danger if you don’t know what it is?"
How indeed?
Lady Margate put her glass aside. "Well, then—take me to see Ashesa."
§
Seb and Tymon wrapped themselves tightly in their cloaks and set out at a quick pace, and for a long time Seb rationed his breath for walking. When they finally stopped to rest in the lee of a small hillock, Seb still remained silent. Tymon began to look concerned.
"You can ask me, you know. I know you want to."
Seb stared at the grass. "Ask what, Tymon? Where would I begin? Where would this improbably twisting loop of your life ever reach a point that I could point to and say: here. This is where I should concentrate my feeble energies for a better understanding. Hah, and again I say: hah. Is there such a place, Tymon? I’m beginning to doubt it very much indeed."
"I can tell you one thing for certain: don’t sulk. That’s a waste of energy if there ever was."
"All right—let’s begin with ‘Dommar the Beast,’ also known as Takren, a gentle farmer whom I can personally attest wouldn’t harm a mosquito even if it was in the act of biting him."
"Did you think the Long Look was something unique to me, Seb? That the Powers’ interest in the world began with you and me and our pitiful hardships?"
"Now that you ask—no. Yet our own difficulties have proven quite sufficient, thank you very much."
Tymon smiled. "Fair enough. But it’s true, as I’ve told you."
If Seb was short on empathy, he could still muster a bit of curiosity. "Was he as bad as they say?"
"Are we?" Tymon asked. He paused to kick over a stone and look beneath it with mild interest while Seb mulled that one over.
"Usually I don’t think so," Seb said finally. "Sometimes I’m not sure," he said. "I suppose it was much the same for Takren."
Tymon nodded. "He was by nature a gentle man. When the Long Look was lifted from him he put as much distance between himself and what the Long Look had made of him as he could manage. Given the opportunity, I’ll do the same."
Tymon started walking again and Seb hurried to catch up. Seb could still feel a cold edge in the wind, but now he could feel the sun, too. Traveling would have been almost pleasant now except when Tymon was in a mood to ponder he walked with the same sort of focused intensity that he brought to whatever else had his interest at the moment. It was hard to keep up with him and Seb hated to remind Tymon that there was a reason for a more stately pace when they walked together. Tymon tended to forget the height difference, which Seb didn’t mind most of the time. Now, however...
"Slow down," Seb demanded. "I’ll wager a hill giant couldn’t keep pace with you when you’re like this, and I’m only a dwarf."
"Hmmmm? Oh, sorry. I was thinking. Or rather, I wasn’t."
"You mean you were thinking about something else entirely. What, may I ask?"
"Something I said."
"Some people feel it’s best to think about what you say before you say it," Seb said dryly.
"This kind of thought can only come after the words, Seb. It’s the nature of the beast. That is, I just told myself something I didn’t realize that I knew, and so almost didn’t notice."
Seb rolled his eyes. "Once more, in the language of our birth?"
"I said, speaking of Takren, that ‘the Long Look was lifted from him’ And so it was, else Dommar could not become Takren. But who lifted it, I wonder? Were the Powers done with him?"
"One would presume so; who else could remove that curse once it’s laid on?"
Tymon said. "It’s not a curse, strictly speaking, as I’ve told you before. I hope you never get to learn the difference first hand. No. Perhaps the Powers, or one of them, did finally relieve Takren of the burden. Yet I know for a certainty that this is not true in my case."
"How do you know?"
"Because an old acquaintance, of sorts, told me so, though it took me some time to realize it."
Seb shook his head. "I repeat; if the Long Look is bestowed by a Power, who else is powerful enough to remove it?"
Tymon looked thoughtful. "Who indeed?"
Seb changed the subject. "This path is too well traveled," Seb said. "We should have kept to the ridges."
At first after they left the pass there had been no trails at all, then a few old cattle paths with no sign of recent use. This was no cattle path. They’d come to it as a downslope turned into the entrance to a green valley and Tymon had started down it without a word. Seb had followed, feeling more and more uncomfortable.
"This is the way to the Spring of Yanasha," Tymon said. "And we’re unlikely to be the only supplicants, even at this time of year. If we keep to the ridges we’ll only draw more attention when we finally do join the path."
Seb wasn’t convinced, but he didn’t argue; Tymon knew more about the business of oracles than he did, certainly. But Seb remained alert for trouble. What actually happened was something else.
They came across the man and his son on the other side of a small stand of pine, one of many along the path at the valley floor. The man had the sun-burnt look of a farmer about him; his clothes were rough-made but clean and well-tended. They had clearly sat down to rest on a solitary stone. Or at least the father had. The boy was about ten and tended to fidget with the kind of pent-up energy that Seb remembered with a twinge of envy.
The man’s glance lingered on Seb for a moment or two, but to Seb’s considerable relief the man didn’t gawk. "Greetings, friends. Are going to the oracle too?"
"That we are," Tymon replied. "My name is Jakan; this is my friend Paka. We’ve come from Morushe."
Well, at least now I know who I’m supposed to be, Seb thought. He returned the greeting himself, but otherwise let Tymon take the lead.
"I’m Hoba, this young rascal is my son, Tuls. Our farm is to the east of here, but not so far as Morushe. That’s quite a ways to travel, so late in the year. I hope you’ve not come for nothing."
Tymon smiled. "’One can only truly judge a distance by the journey,’ he said, quoting the familiar proverb, and I’m sure you must begrudge the time away from your work."
Hoba nodded. "Aye, that’s so. Tuls, I think I saw a spring back a ways." He handed the boy a half-full waterskin. "Fill this up before we go on, there’s a good lad." The boy hurried of to his task, and his father watched him go. "There’s my reason, though I’ll not be talking about him in his presence as if he were deaf as well as afflicted. Thus the errand."
Seb’s respect for the man grew considerably. "What’s wrong with your son?"
"Nothing that I can see. He’s ‘strong as an ox and quick as a fox,’ as the saying goes. The problem started when we lost his mother last spring."
"We’re very sorry for your loss," Tymon said. "That must have been hard."
Hoba shrugged. "Thank you for that, friend. Yes, she was a good lass and I’ll not see her like again in this life, I wager. But it was harder on the boy, you understand. He’s not spoken a single word since the burial, and that was months ago. I’ve come to ask the Oracle how to restore his voice. Or rather his will to use it, which is the heart of the matter. And you?"
Tymon told the man a story of missing family and increased desperation. It was convincingly told but Seb wasn’t really listening; he watched the path for more travelers and was relieved that only Tuls came through the wood, carrying the dripping bottle.
"Safety in numbers," Hoba said, rising. "Though there should be no trouble this close to Yanasha’s sacred place. Still, shall we walk the way together?"
"That’s very kind of you," Tymon said, ignoring Seb’s signal of protest. "We would be pleased."
They set out together and set a good pace. When they paused to rest again, Seb managed to get Tymon’s attention while Hoba and his son were attending to nature some distance away. "I don’t think this is a good idea. What if they recognize us?"
"Seb, ‘a tall man in the company of a dwarf’ is a pretty unique description throughout most of the Farlands, so if they haven’t recognized us already they’re not likely to. And if they do know who we are—which I doubt—much better to stay close where we can keep an eye on them, don’t you think?"
"Well ..." Seb still didn’t like it, but there was wisdom in what Tymon said. "I guess, then, we’re a little less likely to be spotted as two tall men, a boy and a dwarf?"
"Breaks the pattern," replied Tymon cheerfully. "Besides, we’re almost there. We should reach the Shrine by nightfall."
"The sooner the better," Seb said. "Though from what little you’ve told me of the Oracle of Yanasha, I can’t say I’m looking forward to it."
§
"Child, who do you think you’re deluding?"
It wasn’t much of a greeting, but Ashesa put down her sewing and threw her arms around Lady Margate and hugged her fiercely just the same. "Margy! How did you know? Did Father send you? Oh, never mind all that. I’m so happy to see you!"
"I fancy you’d be happy to see anyone other than those rather nervous men outside. You do remember them, don’t you, Highness? The ones with the spears?"
Ashesa shrugged. "Well, under the circumstances, I wasn’t expecting anyone."
"Circumstances. Indeed."
Lady Margate sat down without being asked, and after a moment or two Ashesa sat down too. She reached for her sewing again. "Margy, there’s a rather difficult stitch that goes with this tapestry and it just eludes me. Do you think you could show me how you—"
"Stop it, child. And I do mean now."
Ashesa reddened. "Margy, don’t think I’ll let you take that tone with me, despite our friendship. I am a Princess of the Blood!"
Lady Margate smiled sweetly. "Are you now? Last time I checked, Princesses of the royal house of Morushe did not live in cages."
"This isn’t a cage!"
"Delighted to hear that. So let’s leave it for a while, shall we? I’ve just spent three days in a very hard saddle and my bum’s one solid bruise. I think I fancy a walk. Will you come with me?"
Ashesa shook her head. "You know I can’t, Margy. All right—maybe this is a cage. Maybe I’m not worthy to be a Princess of Morushe. Maybe I’m right where I should be, and, well, that’s all," she finished, looking miserable.
Lady Margate smiled faintly. "Ah. Now we approach the heart of it. All? Not even close. Suppose you did try to leave, Highness. With me. What do you think would happen?"
"I-I don’t know."
"Then let me tell you: Not one blessed thing."
Ashesa blinked. "But those guards—"
"—are veteran men, hand-picked soldiers of greater or lesser intelligence, but I’ll wager you there’s not one complete and utter fool in the bunch; you don’t live long in their profession by being so. And only a complete and utter fool would lay a hand on or otherwise harm a Princess of the Blood Royal, prisoner or no. Galan knows that as well as I do, else he’s not the man I judged him to be. Those men and their spears are for show, just as the door to this cushioned cell is. Or next you’ll be telling me you didn’t know the door wasn’t locked?"
Ashesa wouldn’t look Lady Margate in the eye. "I knew," Ashesa said, softly.
"Then the only reason I can fathom for your continued presence here is that you want to be here. Is that what you want, Ashesa? Sewing, of all things. You hate sewing! You, me, and every other living soul in your father’s palace besides knows that."
Ashesa stared at the needlework for a long moment and finally put it aside. "Yes."
Lady Margate nodded grimly. "I wanted to ask what Galan is punishing you for. I think a better question might be: what are you punishing yourself for?"
Ashesa looked up. There were tears in her eyes and they were coming harder and faster. "Margy ...."
"I’m right here, child."
Ashesa threw her arms around Lady Margate again, and this time she did not let go for a long, long time. "Margy, I’ve done something terrible."
Lady Margate held her hard, bracing against her sobs like a ship preparing for a storm. "Cry now. Let the poison of it out if you can. After that you’re going to tell me everything, and I do mean everything. It's long overdue. Perhaps then we can discover what’s to be done."
§
It wasn’t strictly by chance that Koric wasn’t seen, but almost. If this had been an ordinary day he’d have been in one archive or another, either assisting the curate in charge or busy with his own burgeoning studies. As it was he’d just come out of the Lasandic Archive on an errand to the Abbot when he saw the two men in the courtyard, their mounts being led off by another lay brother to be tended. Koric took two quick steps backward, almost slamming into the doorpost as he did, and barely missed a collision with the curate.
"Koric, what’s gotten into you?"
"I know one of those men, the ones who just arrived. I must speak to the Abbot at once."
The curate, a cheerful old monk with the patience of stone and about as much hair, barely shrugged. "Your errand is with the Abbot. I dare say you can speak to him then."
"But the visitors are being taken to the abbot! I saw them walking toward his rooms."
"I gather this is a problem? Are you in some kind of trouble, Koric?"
"Yes, if you consider having a hired assassin within arm’s reach ‘trouble.’" Koric quickly related some of the story of how he came to be at Kuldun in the first place. It wasn’t a complete version by any means, but the curate got the gist of it easily enough.
"You think he’s followed you here? Why would anyone go to such bother for you?"
"I wish I knew," Koric said, "but until I’m sure of his errand I’m taking no chances. I must speak to the Abbot alone, as soon as possible, but I can’t let the visitors see me. Could the abbot brought here on some pretext?"
The curate considered. "It barely needs a pretext to get the abbot into the archives. I’ll see what I can do. Wait here."
Koric waited, fighting the urge to bite his nails or hide in the rafters. He was eyeing the rafters with more than casual interest when Brother Lons returned, the abbot in tow.
"Brother Koric, what’s this about? Are you saying one of today’s visitors is not who he claims to be?"
"I’m saying he’s a murderer for hire because I know it to be true. As for the other, I cannot say, Lord Abbot. I do not know what he claims to be."
The abbot looked annoyed, but only a for a moment. "Well. That’s certainly true, and I apologize for the oversight. These men claim to be simple travelers, looking for a friend who they believe passed this way."
Koric glanced around as if seeking the best avenue of escape. "Did they describe who they were looking for? Did you believe them?"
The Abbot sighed. "Slow down, lad. For the first, yes, and for the second, no." He turned to the curate. "Convey my apologies to our guests and tell them I’ve been detained. Offer hospitality as is our custom; doubtless they will wish to stay the night at least. See that they’re comfortably housed."
Koric started to protest, but the Abbot silenced him. "We can’t very well refuse without a good reason, and the best reason I can think of at the moment is one we don’t want to share with them." He turned back to the curate. "See to it, Brother Lons. I don’t think we need fear them so long as we behave as expected."
Lons hurried away, and the Abbot watched him go. "Now that Lons is gone, I can tell you—our guests are not looking for you. The man they’ve described is clearly Tymon, your benefactor. Naturally I was vague about his whereabouts; it’s reasonable enough since so many folk visit us."
Koric allowed himself to enjoy the relief for a moment, then moved on to a new fear. "They’ll ask questions, Lord Abbot. Not everyone here is so discreet. I would not like to see Seb or Tymon harmed."
The Abbot smiled at that, then grew thoughtful. "Well spoken, and I’m afraid you’re right about the questions part. I can’t very well forbid all here to talk to our guests without raising even more questions, which defeats the purpose in any case. I think it quite likely they’ll discover what they want to know within a day or so and be on the trail of our friends soon after."
"Then what do we do?"
"The only thing possible. We must send someone to warn Tymon. Tonight."
"I’ll go," Koric said. "I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave my studies, for one thing. I don’t want to give this assassin another chance at me, for another. But if I remain here there’s a chance I’ll be seen anyway."
The Abbot nodded. "Sensible. Now then, let’s see about getting you provisioned and away while our guests are resting from their journey. With luck and a little prevarication we can get you off with a day or two head start."
"That should be enough," Koric said, though he wished it might be much more.
"Let us hope," said the Abbot, "because my most optimistic assessment says that’s all you’re going to get."
Ω
10 A wonderful capacity for surprise
Seb wasn’t prepared. How could he be? Nothing Tymon had said or the stories he had heard could prepare him for the sight of the Oracle of Yanasha in all her glory. The shrine itself gave little hint of what awaited them; it was a simple stone structure beside a rushing stream. There was one basin for offerings, one statue of the Goddess Yanasha, her arms raised in benediction, a statue earnestly but naively carved by some long-vanished priest. Tymon made his offering right after the farmer did, gold following bronze, but there was no price set that Seb could discern.
