“Lingering in Terabiand if there are any reports of late snows in the mountains,” put in Erich.
“Yes, so the whole progress takes about two months, sometimes more, doesn’t it, Erich? I’ve always wanted to go along… My cousin doesn’t want to spend so long away from the Delta, I suppose,” Mienthe added a little doubtfully.
“He doesn’t care to travel?”
“Oh, before, he went everywhere in Feierabiand, I think,” she said. “And to—”
Casmantium
, she had meant to say, but that had been after Casmantium had tried to annex part of Feierabiand, when her cousin had escorted Erich from his father’s court to Iaor’s and she didn’t want to say that. She said instead, “I think he likes to stay closer to home, now.”
“Of course,” Tan murmured.
Mienthe realized suddenly that Tan really had known about the progress, but had simply wanted to get them talking freely. And she had—much more than usual. She gave him a narrow look, wondering whether to laugh or be angry. “You’re very good at that, aren’t you? I think I understand why you’re such a good spy. Confidential agent, I mean.”
Tan looked surprised. Then he laughed and opened his
hands in a gesture of contrition. “Habit,” he said apologetically. “One I’ll have to break, now I’m no longer an agent—certainly not confidential. Forgive me, esteemed lady.”
Mienthe thought it would be very difficult to break a habit of getting people to talk to you, and doubted Tan really meant to try. And the other half of that habit must be not talking too much yourself, at least not about anything important. That must be hard, learning to say things, but nothing that mattered. She’d certainly been carrying more than her share of the conversation so far, which wasn’t at all usual for her, and hadn’t been her intention, either.
Perhaps guessing her thoughts, Tan said lightly, “I do know some north Linularinan poetry, including a couple of romantic epics you might not have heard this far south. I could write them out for you, if you like.”
Mienthe straightened, excited and happy at this generous offer, even though he’d obviously made it partly to turn the subject and partly to flatter her because she was Bertaud’s cousin. But she hardly meant to turn the offer down, no matter why he’d made it. She said quickly, “Oh, could you? Of course you could—you have a legist’s memory. That would be wonderful, truly! And it would be something quiet you could do, when I know you’re still tired.” She hesitated, remembering that he was a guest, and still recovering from injury or exhaustion. “If you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not in the least,” Tan said cheerfully. “Whom should I ask for paper and quills?”
“Oh, I’ll send you all the things you’d need,” Mienthe assured him. She jumped up, but then hesitated. “I know
you only just came out of a legist’s trance. Of course you need to rest. I’d understand if you’ve worn your gift out for the next little while—I didn’t mean to ask you to write things for me if you’re too tired or anything—”
“Not at all,” Tan assured her with perfect good cheer. “An unhurried little task like this is just what I need to limber my gift and memory and fingers all up again.”
“If you’re sure,” Mienthe said. But he did look tired now, she thought. “But
I’m
sure you should rest. I’ll tell the kitchens to send up a real tray, shall I?” There were only crumbs on the plate that had held the rolls.
“A wonderful idea,” Tan agreed, and let his head rest against the pillows.
“Though I should go find Bertaud first,” Mienthe added doubtfully, once she and Erich were in the hall. There were two guardsmen in the hall, which she found did not surprise her.
“Go,” agreed Erich. “I’m sure Geroen passed the word along, but yes, go. I do not mind to go back by the kitchens.”
Mienthe grinned and let him go. But once she was alone, her steps slowed. She was, she decided, thinking back on it, not quite as pleased at Tan’s offer as she ought to have been. How strange it was, to be a little bit suspicious of every single thing a man said! She found herself wondering if Tan was trying to make a good impression on her, and then wondering if asking herself that question meant he wasn’t succeeding, and then asking herself whether it was fair to be suspicious of a man who had, after all, risked his life to bring Feierabiand important information. Or fair to worry about whether Tan was being altogether honest with her, when, after all,
she never did know whether
anyone
ever was. Except her cousin, of course.
Her steps quickened as she suddenly found herself eager to talk to Bertaud. She wanted to ask him whether he liked Tan, whether he thought he ought to like him, whether he trusted him—was it possible to like somebody you didn’t trust? Was it
proper
to allow yourself to like somebody you didn’t trust?
Though the great house had hardly been built to loom over the town, some parts of it were set rather high, and then the whole house was on a hill—not a high hill, but the highest Tiefenauer offered. The solar was nearly as high up as the tower room, but in every other way it was the antithesis of that windowless chamber, being long and narrow and very nearly nothing but windows. It was much too hot in high summer for anyone but a particularly determined cat, but it was perfect in the winter and early spring, especially at sunset, for almost all of its windows looked west. One could look right out over the rooftops of Tiefenauer to the flashing ribbon of the river, the bridge leading in a fine and delicate arch over to Linularinum. Away to the north, the marshes were a dusky emerald with occasional glints of diamond brilliance where the sunlight struck through the dense trees to the still waters beneath. To the south, visible on clear days, the infinite sea stretched away, muddy and opaque where the Sierhanan River emptied, clear sapphire farther out.
Mienthe had expected Bertaud to be in company with King Iaor, with maybe half a dozen attendants besides. But her cousin was quite alone. He was sitting in a high-backed chair drawn up close to the windows. There was
a book open on his knee, but he wasn’t reading it. He was gazing out over the city, past the city, at the clouds piling up over the sea, purple and gold against a luminous sky, crimson in the west where the setting sun turned the sea to flame.
He did not see Mienthe at once. She watched him in silence for a moment. The brilliant light showed her fine lines at the corners of his eyes, deeper lines at the corners of his mouth. He looked older in this light, only… not exactly older. Her cousin looked, Mienthe thought, as though something had recalled to him some grief or hard memory.
Then, though she was standing motionless, he must have heard her, for he turned his head. The golden light of sunset seemed to fill his eyes with fire, and yet behind the opaque veil of fire, they were dark. Even bleak. Some of the other girls Mienthe knew who also liked epic romances would have instantly spun a tale of love and loss to explain that bleakness. Mienthe didn’t think what she saw had any such simple explanation. She didn’t understand her cousin’s unspoken sorrow, yet somehow she recognized it. She stood mute in the doorway.
Then the setting sun touched the surface of the sea, the angle of the light coming in through the windows changed, and the moment passed.
“Mienthe,” Bertaud said, rising to greet her. With the light now at his back, it was impossible to make out his expression at all.
Though Mienthe listened carefully, she could hear neither grief nor loneliness in his tone. She said, “Tan’s awake, did Geroen tell you? I went to see him.” She’d been a little worried that her cousin might not approve,
but he only nodded and invited her, with a gesture, to take a chair near his.
“What did you think of our spy?”
“Oh…” Mienthe tried to think how to answer. “He has enough charm, when he wants to. I think he must have been a good spy.”
“Indeed. He’s resting now, I suppose? Well enough. I’ll want to speak with him tonight. Or possibly Iaor will. Or perhaps both of us.”
Poor spy
, to have both the king and her cousin looming over him at once.
“I left orders for one of Geroen’s men to attend him at all times. I want him to stay close for a few more days, and I don’t think I necessarily trust that man to obey any command he’d rather conveniently forget.”
Her cousin was smiling a little as he said this last, but Mienthe thought he wasn’t really amused. He wasn’t used, she decided, to having to doubt whether anybody would obey him, and he didn’t like having to wonder.
Mienthe nodded and started to speak, but then stopped. The sun was nearly down, flashing flame-red against the flat horizon where sea met sky. Other than that distant blaze, the world had gone dark. The dark and hidden depths of the marshes rolled out beyond the city; nearer at hand, the earliest stars glimmered into sight to meet the warmer glow of lanterns and lamps in the streets below. Bertaud took a taper from the desk, struck it to life, and stretched up to light the lamps that hung from the ceiling on bronze chains.
And outside the windows of the solar, a sudden blackness moved against the sky. It spread out, bulking enormous—not a bird, no bird would be so large, but certainly
not clouds across the sky; it moved too fast and looked all wrong for that. She held her breath, half expecting it to crash against the windows—shattering glass would fly everywhere—she took a step back in fearful anticipation. But then the dark shape, if she’d really ever seen it at all, dwindled and disappeared.
Mienthe took a step closer to the windows, blinking, wondering whether she’d actually seen something or merely imagined it.
Behind her, Bertaud made a wordless sound that held an extraordinary combination of astonishment, longing, intense joy, and anger.
She turned. There was a man in the solar with them. A stranger. He was much older than Mienthe—older than Bertaud, she thought, though she did not understand why she thought so. His black hair was not streaked with gray and his eyes were ageless, but Mienthe was sure that he was actually much older than he looked. He had an austere, proud face and powerful deep-set black eyes. His clothing was all of black and a red as dark as dying coals.
And there was something strange about his shadow. It wasn’t just the flickering light of the lamps: The shadow itself flickered with fire; it was
made
of fire, but with eyes as black as those of the man who cast it. And it was the wrong shape—not the shape of a man at all, but Mienthe could not have said what form could have cast it. She took another involuntary step back, expecting the rugs and drapes and polished wood of the solar to blaze up in flames. But the shadow seemed to contain its fire, and nothing else burned. Then the man turned his head, glancing at her with a strange kind of indifferent
curiosity. Mienthe saw that although his eyes were black, they, too, were filled with fire. She stared back, feeling pinned in place with shock and terror, like a hare under the shadow of a falcon.
Then Bertaud took a step forward. He said sharply, “Kairaithin. Anasakuse Sipiike Kairaithin. Why have you come here?”
The stranger turned his attention back to him, and the moment passed.
Beneath the sharpness, Bertaud’s voice shook. But not, thought Mienthe, in terror. Whatever strong emotion gripped her cousin, it was not fear. Nor had Bertaud moved—say, to step in front of her. He did not pay her any attention at all. Rather than feeling hurt or overlooked, Mienthe found this reassuring. The man—the mage—whoever he was, he had to be a mage, though she had never heard of any mage who cast a shadow of fire—but he could not be so dangerous if her cousin, who clearly knew him, did not think Mienthe needed protection.
Bertaud did not wait for an answer, but said, his tone changing, “You look tired. You look… older. Are you… are you well, then?” His voice had dropped, the anger replaced by… worry? Fear? Mienthe wasn’t certain what she heard in his voice. “Did it harm you, crossing the Wall?” Bertaud asked. And then, “But how
did
you cross it?”
The man—the fire mage, Kairaithin—tilted his head, somehow a strange motion that made Mienthe think of the way a bird moved; it had something of that quick, abrupt quality. Mienthe saw that his shadow was a bird’s shadow, only too large and feathered with fire, and not
altogether the shape of a bird. She blinked and at last recognized what creature cast that kind of shadow—she couldn’t believe she’d been so slow to understand. This was not a man at all, not at
all
. He was a griffin. The human shape he wore just barely disguised the fact, and only for a moment.
The griffin said, “The answer to all your questions is the same answer.”
His voice was as outrageously inhuman as his shadow: pitiless as fire and with a strange timbre, as though his tongue and throat were not accustomed to shaping the sounds of any ordinary language. He stood very still, watching Bertaud. Not as a falcon watches a hare, Mienthe thought, but she was not sure why she thought it was different, or why she thought the stranger was… not exactly afraid, but wary.
Bertaud, too, stood unmoving. Mienthe thought he had recovered from his astonishment, but she thought he was bracing himself against some message he would not welcome. He said, “What is that answer?”
“The Wall has cracked,” the griffin said. Then he was still again, watching Bertaud.
Bertaud clearly understood this very well. “Tehre’s Wall?” her cousin said, not a question, but in clear dismay. “How?”
“I do not know. It should have stood for a thousand years, that making,” answered the griffin—Kairaithin, Anasakuse Something Kairaithin—and how did her cousin come to know his name? Or the names of any griffins?