Daughter of Ancients (30 page)

“So you believe what she says about it? And you can make some reasonable guess as to how it was done?”

He dug a pen and inkpot from the debris on his worktable and scratched some notations in the margin of his book. “Oh, yes. I have no doubts as to her tale. But I have not the least desire to know how it was done.”

Though his desires were not relevant to my inquiry, the absolute surety of his statement pricked my curiosity. “Why not? As an Arcanist you study complex enchantments, do you not? How can you resist knowing of this one?”

For a brief moment he glanced up from his reading and the force of his full attention was like the pressure of a powerful hand, only released when he turned away again. “Because it is a savage cruelty,” he said.

“I don't understand. Certainly to imprison an innocent girl, separating her from family and friends, is terrible and wicked. But the enchantment itself seems no more cruel than sleep.”

“But this enchantment was not sleep, madam-who-is-not-Dar'Nethi. One thing I have learned in my years of study is that it is impossible to completely suspend the activity of the mind. No matter how deep the enchantment, no matter how long the span of it, one would retain some awareness of the world beyond oneself. Perhaps the Lords learned to deaden the mind completely. But mercy was not in their nature. No, as long as the body lives, the mind lives. Therein lies the cruelty.”

He turned his pages more and more rapidly, his eyes devouring the words. His free hand grabbed a fistful of grapes from a wooden bowl and popped them into his mouth one at a time.

“Do you mean that during that thousand years, the Lady might have been awake . . . or at least aware of time passing, of her surroundings, of all that had happened or was happening?” The thought of it left me breathless with horror.

Garvé nodded and swallowed a grape. “Not a pleasant consideration, is it? But considering the Lords is never pleasant. They must have set her mind wandering far from where she was, as we do with those poor souls in Feur Desolé, or she could not have survived it so well.”

Savage cruelty indeed. Garvé's words bounced off the unpainted walls like pelting hailstones. Indeed all his words seemed to have more substance than those of anyone I'd ever met, and they lingered about his house with all his other scraps, as if you could pull open a drawer in one of his shabby bureaus and have whole conversations fall out.

I had heard what I'd come for, and I stood up to leave.

“Have you no more questions, my mysterious not-Dar'Nethi?” he asked, even while pulling a second book from a tottering stack of them and opening it in the clear space on his worktable, flicking his eyes back and forth from one to the other.

“I've a thousand other questions,” I said. “But it appears I should not bother you with them today.”

“I'd like to hear them. It's little disturbance. No one comes here.” He glanced up ever so briefly. “You must understand, I cannot hold you in my attention as others do. My control seems to be slipping far too easily of late. But I am listening, and very curious myself as to what brings a lovely not-Dar'Nethi woman of amazing constitution and sensible intelligence to call on someone of my reputation to inquire of D'Arnath's daughter.”

I couldn't help but like the strange man, though I was indeed coming to fear the quivering atmosphere surrounding him as I feared nothing else about the Dar'-Nethi world. V'Rendal had warned me that no one knew the limits or the directions of Garvé's power, as by its very nature it crossed the boundaries of all talents and grew as it touched each one. He never expended his own power except when gaining more from other people.

“I am interested in everything about the Lady,” I said, settling back on the stool. “Her reappearance after so many years. Her story. The fact that she was in Zhev'Na for so long and appears . . . untainted by it.”

“Creatures of the deeps! I know you!” In the space of a heartbeat, I was lifted from my stool and slammed against the wall by an invisible fist, my ribs creaking and groaning with the strain, though Garvé had done nothing but lift his head from his books in surprise and stare intently at my face.

“Ah, sorry . . . sorry . . . Forgive me.” He jumped off his perch, dropping his books on the floor and toppling his inkpot, so that my blurring vision saw a great dark blot pooling on the sooty brick floor. But instead of coming to peel me off the wall and check on my state of health, he grabbed an armful of pots and jars and spoons from his shelves, lined them up on yet another worktable, and began to measure and pour ingredients from one to another of them.

Gradually the monstrous unseen hand that pinned me to the wall was released, and I took a deep breath. Ascertaining that my ribs were intact, I returned to my stool and watched him work.

“Sorry”—almost a quarter of an hour had passed—“my Lady Seriana of the world across the Bridge.”

“How is it you know me?” My instincts demanded that I be afraid, but for once I didn't believe them. I didn't think he meant me any harm at all, and in fact was doing his best to preclude it. I watched his fingers moving furiously in a frenzy of mixing and stirring and measuring. I wasn't curious about what he was making. I had come to think it didn't matter in the least what he was doing, only that he was doing it.

“I was called in by the late Prince D'Natheil after your injury those many years ago, when you were dying and he brought you to Avonar because he could not heal you. I was unable to help. I never knew you had recovered. We heard . . . well, clearly we heard much that was not true. Prince Ven'Dar has tried to explain to me what went on in those days with D'Natheil and his son and his wife, but I'll confess, I've never really listened.”

One hand paused briefly, as if an idea had occurred to him. Then he quickly bent to his work again. “Now, perhaps, I understand. Of course you would be interested to hear of the Lady D'Sanya's return from Zhev'Na because of what happened to your son there. I saw the boy, too, after his capture. I—” He shuddered slightly, and the floor trembled until he found a tarnished brass balance and began weighing miniscule portions of leaves and herbs, wrapping them up in small packets, labeling them, and tossing them into baskets already full of such things. “I created the enchantments with which your son was confined before his execution. So much sorrow. So much pain. To bear such grief . . . And here you are in my house after so many years, asking about the Lady and Zhev'Na, and I will not ask why, for I sense—I know—that if V'Rendal sent you, it is because someone of importance has questions about the Lady. I think it behooves me not to think of it too very much.”

“Your discretion is appreciated.”

He nodded even while keeping his back to me, his hands moving so quickly as to be almost invisible. “Ask what you will. As I've told you, I believe the Lady's story. She was cruelly used, but she is strong as you are strong, and she survived it as you have survived the injuries done to you and the path of sorrow that is the Way laid down for you.”

“Is the Lady an Arcanist? She seems to have so many talents. So much power. I've been curious.”

“An Arcanist? No. No. I don't think so. The Lady D'Sanya does one thing at a time and the power is her own. The nature of an Arcanist is to bind many things together: I can take the herbs from a Gardener, infused with the force of his talent, and bind them into a paste to smear on the eyes of a Sea Dweller so that she can permeate it with her own power, so I can then use the paste to penetrate darkness in the way of an Imager, seeing the colors that radiate from the mind of an Artist, so we can understand why his talent has failed him. So am I Healer or Gardener or Sea Dweller or Imager? No. None of these. I only use their talents. The Lady is not one of us.”

“Then what, Master Garvé? We must understand her before she takes the throne of Avonar, and how is it possible to understand a Dar'Nethi without understanding her talent? Your tradition says it is rude and unworthy to ask the question, as the qualities of the soul are so much more important. Yet I have never met a Dar'Nethi whose soul was not shaped by the gift born in him: the talent that guides his fingers and the power he brings to serve it.”

Garvé's hands slowed, and I felt the shifting of the air, the chest-crushing pressure that was his notice. Only when he forced his hands busy again and started speaking was I able to breathe without conscious effort. “You have seen us at our best and worst, my lady, and at many levels in between, I suspect, and of course you are correct. We profess that we see beyond our talents, but we cannot. As for the Lady, I do not know. I might have thought her a Word Winder, but even in my brief examination I noted that she uses words carelessly—and far too many of them. I would guess she is something like a Devisor, one who creates physical objects to accomplish certain tasks. It is why she can do some things that seem like healing, yet not everything, and things that seem like a Gardener, but not everything. You understand? A Word Winder creates enchantments from the power of words, a Devisor from the physical properties of nature. She makes things to carry her power—a little portion of herself contained in each one.”

“I see. Yes, I've been told she carried protective ‘devices' that she made with her mentor in his workshop.”

“She spoke of a mentor?”

“Yes. A man named L'Clavor.”

There are moments between sleep and waking when you feel a slightly nauseating sense of falling, as if you go in and out of time and the body can barely manage it. Whenever I managed to distract Garvé with something unexpected, the room wavered a bit.

“L'Clavor!” Rapidly Garvé pushed his mixing aside and set up a brass oil burner on the workbench. Into a flat copper dish he spilled the contents of one after another of the little twists of brown paper he had tossed in his baskets, and then he set the dish on the burner and hovered over it, stirring the contents rapidly with a copper spoon while dribbling in a thin stream of oil from a glass cruet. “Odd I had not heard this from the earlier investigations. You're sure of your source?”

“Absolutely sure.”

“The name answers your question, my lady. L'Clavor was the most famous Metalwright in all of our history.”

“A Metalwright . . .”

“Yes. The Lady would be able to create devices of silver, gold, and such to carry the mark of her power. And because she was mentored by L'Clavor, who developed the technique, she would be able to link her devices with each other to make even more intricate enchantments.”

I puzzled over this revelation, as Garvé bustled about with his never-ending activities. It seemed so incongruous—totally unexpected. I had always thought of the Lady as being involved in the more nature-oriented talents, like Healer or Gardener, or the more abstract ones like Balancer or Speaker, but never as one who could shape metal into jewelry or teapots or door locks, weaving her enchantments into them.

I was ready to ask more, but Garvé had set down the cruet and was attempting to read while stirring his nasty-smelling concoction over the burner. He'd already come near setting his book afire at least twice as colored flames shot upward from the contents of the copper pan. Though his voice held calm and steady, his hands were trembling. “Madam, it has been a delight, and I would take great pleasure if you were to grace my home again, but for now . . . I think it would be best if you were to leave. And I would recommend you be quick about it.”

“As you wish. Thank you, Master Garvé. I'll think on—”

“Go now!”

I ran. As I darted through the cramped rooms, the floor shook. Several boxes tumbled from their piles, and a basket of pinecones toppled into the pathway. I bent to pick them up but thought better of it when the shaking grew worse and I could scarcely keep my feet under me. I ran out the front door, and from behind me came a noisy rumble in the earth and a clamor of falling metal and breaking glass. Red smoke puffed from the chimney and the door.

When the shaking ended and silence fell, I considered going back into the house to see if Garvé had survived. But from the dust-filled darkness behind the doors and windows, I heard a huge, groaning sigh. Perhaps my absence might be of more help than my inquiries.

I pulled up the hood of my cloak and walked the streets of Avonar for hours, twisting my mind into knots with everything I'd heard from Eu'Vian, from poor mad J'Savan, and from the gently violent Garvé. I could make no sense, no connection, though I knew it was there for me to find.

Exhausted, I touched the bellpull hanging by Aimee's front door—a white cord with a simple ring of brass at the end—and the ring began to spin slowly, catching the brilliant gleam of the small white lights that blossomed in Avonar's streets at night like stars fallen to earth. The movement caught my eye and focused my distracted thoughts upon it as I listened to the silvery jangle of the bell. Then, in an instant, it was as if my own small earthquake shook the pieces until they fit together. I knew what D'Sanya had buried in the rootling grove, and what J'Savan had found there when he dug to see what was killing his precious trees—the burning eye in the desert.
Oh, holy gods . . . Gerick . . .

“Are you hungry? Should I call Vanor?” I picked up the book that had slid off my father's lap unopened and set it on the table, then crouched down in front of him in hopes he might look me in the eye and show some spark of life.

“Wine, perhaps. I don't know.” He propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and rested his head in his hand. “It's just so difficult. . . .”

I jumped up to pour a glass of wine from the carafe on the sideboard. “We could take a walk if you like. It's a fine afternoon. Have you been out while I was away?”