Hidden Warrior (17 page)

She clutched his hand and the room went black around Arkoniel. Her voice came to him out of the darkness, strong and clear as a young woman’s. “Hear the Dream of Hyradin. ‘And so came the Beautiful One, the Eater of Death, to strip the bones of the world. First clothed in Man’s flesh it came, crowned with a dread helm of darkness and none could stand against this One but Four.’ ”

Her voice changed, deepening to a man’s. The darkness parted and Arkoniel found himself in a forest clearing, facing a fair-haired man in ragged clothes. The stranger held the cursed bowl in his hands, offering it to him. “First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in the darkness,” he said to Arkoniel. “Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who
shall fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen One, goes forth. And at the last shall again be the Guardian, whose portion is bitter, bitter as gall when they meet under the Pillar of the Sky.”

The voice and vision faded away and Arkoniel blinked around at the familiar chamber. The words were etched in his mind, as Ranai had promised. He had only to think of them and the wizard’s voice seemed to speak in his ear. But what did they mean?

Ranai’s eye was closed, her face peaceful. It was a moment before he realized that she was dead. If she knew the meaning of the dream, she’d taken that knowledge with her to Bilairy’s gate.

He whispered the prayer of passing for her, then rose to find Iya. As he stood up his clothing fell away in ashes. Even his shoes had been reduced to cinders by the rush of the old woman’s power, yet his body was unmarked.

Wrapping himself in a blanket, he went to the door and let Iya in. She took the situation in at a glance. Cupping Arkoniel’s face between her hands, she gazed into his eyes, then nodded. “She passed her life force to you.”

“She made herself die?”

“Yes. She had no successor. By channeling her soul through yours as she died, she was trying to impart some of her power to you.”

“A gift,” Arkoniel murmured, sitting down by her. “I thought she meant the—” He caught himself. He’d spoken freely to Iya all his life; he felt like a traitor now, keeping secrets.

She sat on the end of the bed and gazed sadly at the dead woman. “It’s all right. No one understands better than I how things stand. Do what you must.”

“I won’t kill you, if that’s what you mean!”

Iya chuckled. “No, the Lightbearer has work for me yet. This is the proof of it. There are others, many others, who’ve had a glimpse of what Tobin will become. Illior is choosing those who will help her. For so long I thought I
was the only one, but it seems I’m only the messenger. Others must be gathered and protected before the Harriers take them all.”

“But how?”

Iya reached into a pouch at her belt and tossed Arkoniel a small pebble; he’d lost track of how many of these little tokens she’d left with other wizards. “You’ve been safe enough here, all these years. I’ll send the others here for now. How do you feel?”

“No different.” Arkoniel rolled the pebble between his fingers. “Well, maybe a bit more scared.”

Iya rose and hugged him. “So am I.”

T
obin returned to the throne room several times, but had no more ghostly visitations. He was still a child, and in the way of children, it was easy to put his fears aside once the moment passed. The ghosts or gods or Iya would tell him when it was time to step forward. For now, he was simply Tobin, beloved cousin of a young prince, nephew of a king he’d never met. The Companions were cheered wherever they went, and Korin was everyone’s darling.

B
ard as Porion and Raven worked the boys, winter was a time of special pleasures. The theaters of Ero staged their most lavish productions in the dark months; true marvels featuring live animals, mechanical devices, and fireworks. The Golden Tree surpassed all the other houses with a lengthy play cast entirely with real centaurs from the Ashek Mountains, the first of their kind Tobin and Ki had seen.

The markets were fragrant with the scent of roasting chestnuts and mulled cider, and bright with fine woolen goods from the northlands beyond Mycena. Street vendors sold sweets made of honey and fresh snow that glistened like amber in the sunlight.

Chancellor Hylus was a kindly guardian and saw to it that Tobin had ample pocket money, far more than Orun had seen fit to give him. Still unused to having gold or anywhere to spend it, Tobin would have let the coins gather dust in his room if Korin hadn’t insisted on visits to his favorite tailors, swordsmiths, and other merchants. Encouraged, Tobin got rid of the faded black velvet hangings in
his bedchamber, replacing them with his own, blue and white and silver.

He also visited the artisans in Goldsmith Street and began making sculptures and bits of jewelry again. One day he shyly took a brooch he was rather proud of to show to an Aurënfaie jeweler whose work he especially admired. It was a filigree piece cast in bronze and fashioned to look like bare, intertwined branches. He had even included a few tiny leaves and set it with a scattering of tiny white crystals. He’d been thinking of the night sky over Lhel’s clearing and the way the stars winked through the oak branches on winter nights.

Master Tyral was a thin, silver-haired man with pale grey eyes and a bright blue sen’gai. Tobin was fascinated by these exotic folk and could already recognize half a dozen different clans by their distinctive headcloths and manner in which they wrapped the long strips of wool or silk around their heads. Tyral and his workmen all wore theirs in a sort of squat turban wrapped low on their heads, the long ends hanging over their left shoulders.

Tyral greeted him warmly as always, and invited Tobin to lay out his work on a square of black velvet. Tobin unwrapped the bronze brooch and put it down.

“You made this?” Tyral murmured in his soft, lilting accent. “And this, as well, yes?” he asked, pointing to the gold horse charm Tobin wore around his neck. “May I see it?”

Tobin handed it to him, then fidgeted nervously as the man examined both pieces closely. Looking around at the beautiful necklaces and rings on display around the fine shop, he began to regret his audacity. He’d come to enjoy the praise of his friends for his work, but they weren’t artists. What would this master craftsman care for his clumsy attempts?

“Tell me about this brooch. How did you achieve such fine lines?” Tyral asked, looking up with an expression Tobin couldn’t immediately interpret.

Tobin haltingly explained how he’d sculpted each tiny branch in wax, then woven the warmed filaments together and packed them in wet sand to receive the molten metal. Before he’d finished, the ’faie chuckled and held up a hand.

“Indeed, you are the artist. Forgive my doubt, but I seldom see such skill in a Tírfaie of your age.”

“You think they’re good?”

The ’faie picked up the horse charm. “This is very nice. You wisely kept the lines simple, suggesting detail rather than cluttering the little body up with it. One can feel the beast’s vitality in the stretch of the neck and the way you’ve positioned the legs, as if it is running. Lesser artisans would leave the legs straight, like a cow’s. Yes, it is a fine little piece. But this one!” He picked up the brooch and cradled it in the hollow of his palm. “This shows more than skill. You were sad when you made this. Homesick, perhaps?”

Tobin nodded, speechless.

Tyral took Tobin’s right hand and examined the fingers and palm the same way he’d looked at the brooch. “You train to be a warrior, but you were born to be an artist, a maker of things. Do they train you for that as well, up there on the hill?”

“No, it’s just something I do. My mother made things, too.”

“She gave you a great gift, then, Prince Tobin. One perhaps you have not been taught to value as you should. The Lightbearer has put skill in these rough young hands of yours.” He sat back and sighed. “Your family is renowned for their prowess in battle, but I will tell you a true thing. With such hands as these, you will always be happier creating than you ever will be destroying. I am not flattering you or currying favor when I say that if you were a common boy rather than a prince, I would invite you to work here with me. I’ve never said that to any Tírfaie, either.”

Tobin looked around at the workbenches, with their
rouge stones, crucibles, and racks of scarred mallets, tiny hammers, dies, and files.

Tyral smiled sadly, reading the longing in his eyes. “We do not choose our births, do we? It would not be seemly for a prince of Skala to become a common craftsman. But you will find ways, I think. Come see me whenever you like and I will give you what help I can.”

T
he jeweler’s words stayed with Tobin for a long time afterward. It was true that he couldn’t sell his work like a common craftsman, but he could keep on as he had, making gifts. He made charms and cloak pins decorated with animal heads and gems for his friends. Nikides commissioned an emerald ring for his grandfather’s birthday and Hylus was so pleased with it he was never seen without it again. Word spread and soon commissions were coming in from other nobles, who brought him gold and gems to work with. Apparently, as Ki observed, Tobin could work for his own kind.

W
hen Porion allowed them the occasional day off, Korin took the younger boys around to his new favorite haunts: taverns where pretty girls in low-cut bodices were quick to sit on the older boys’ laps and to pet and coo over the younger ones. Actress and actors welcomed them backstage at the finest theaters, and merchants in the richer districts always seemed to have some special items held back just for them.

Now and then—usually when Korin had been drinking, as Ki was quick to note—he even brought the younger ones along on his nocturnal rambles. This required giving Master Porion the slip, but that was part of the fun. On frosty moonlit nights they played catch-me through the crooked streets, then headed down to some of the meanest waterfront neighborhoods. Even in the dead of winter these streets stank of shit and dead dogs, and the wine in the filthy taverns was vile. Yet Korin seemed happier here
than anywhere else, bawling drunkenly along with raw-throated minstrels or elbowing in beside sailors, dock-hands, and less savory fellows to watch a street fight or a bear baiting.

The older boys were already well-known in such places, and Korin was greeted as “young Lord No-Name” with knowing winks and nods. More than once the older boys left the others waiting on some cold unlit street corner while they had their whores against alley walls. Of all the older boys, only Lynx refused to join in these unsavory revels. Waiting in the cold with Tobin and the others, listening to the yelps and grunts that echoed out, he often looked downright ill. Barieus hovered near him, anxious to offer comfort, but Lynx took no notice.

“I don’t understand it!” Ki exclaimed in disgust as they rode home on their own one night. “Those lowborn sailors and whores would knife their own mothers for one night in a decent house, but these spoiled young blades roll downhill like horse turds into places even my brothers wouldn’t even set a toe in. They wallow in it like pigs and Korin is the worst of ’em. I’m sorry, Tobin, but it’s true and you know it. He’s our leader and he sets the tone. I wish Caliel would talk sense into him.” They both knew that wasn’t likely to happen.

I
t wasn’t all gutter crawling, though. Invitations arrived daily to parties, bonfires, and hunts. Creamy scrolls written in colored inks piled up like fallen leaves in the Companions’ mess. The Companions had always been much sought-after guests in the king’s absence, and were all the more so now that Korin was nearing marriageable age.

The prince was not one to turn down invitations. Fifteen, and already man-grown with a fine new beard on his chin, Korin drew admiring stares wherever he went. His hair hung in a mane of black ringlets around his shoulders, framing a square, handsome face and flashing dark eyes. He knew how to make women of any age melt with a
smile or a kiss on the hand; girls gathered around him like cats to cream while their mothers hovered anxiously, hoping for some sign of favor.

Those with younger daughters began to cast their eyes in Tobin’s direction, as well, much to his friends’ envious amusement and Tobin’s secret dismay. He was rich, after all, and of the best family in Skala. Twelve was not too young to consider a contracted union. The shy glances of the girls and their mothers’ naked appraisal made Tobin cringe. Even if he had been who they imagined him to be, he doubted he’d have welcomed such predatory looks. After the obligatory greetings with their hosts of the evening, he quickly sought out a corner in which to hide.

Ki, on the other hand, took to the life like a duck to water. His good looks and easy, laughing manner attracted attentions he was more than happy to return. He even took to dancing.

The other Companions teased Tobin about his shyness, but it was Arengil who at last found a way to put him more at ease.

In mid-Dostin Caliel’s mother, the Duchess Althia, hosted a ball in honor of her son’s sixteenth birthday at her villa near the Old Palace. It was a grand affair. The hall was lit with hundreds of wax tapers, tables groaned with food of the best sort, and two bands of minstrels played by turns for the bejeweled gathering.

Caliel’s younger sister Mina cajoled Tobin into a dance, and he embarrassed himself as usual, tripping over his feet and hers. As soon as the song ended he excused himself and took cover in a corner. Ki came over to keep him company, but Tobin could tell from the way he followed the dancers with his eyes, tapping his feet and drumming his hands on his knees in time to the music that he’d rather be out dancing.

“Go on, I don’t mind,” Tobin grumbled, as several pretty girls wandered past, making eyes at them.

Ki gave him a guilty grin. “No, that’s all right.”

Chancellor Hylus was speaking with Nikides nearby. Spying Tobin there, they came over.

“I’ve just been having the most interesting conversation with my grandson,” Hylus told Tobin. “It seems you’ve been badly overlooked.”

Tobin looked up in surprise. Hylus was smiling and Nikides looked very pleased with himself. “How do you mean, my lord?”