The Makers of Light (25 page)

When the Laurent party had finally left the dining hall, Rianor ran his thumb along his wrist, looking at his own watch. Just the
symbol, and Marguerite's had only had the symbol of Laurent.

Audric's symbol, Audric's banners ... Suddenly Rianor rose and turned, narrowing his eyes at the wall that had been behind him while he had been sitting at the table. He had only glimpsed it upon entering, and it had been nothing special, just a freshly painted white wall with a painting hanging on it of small violet flowers in green grass. The green, however, had then, like now, jumped at him for some reason. He moved closer and saw nothing, then moved further away, towards Linden. She had just stood, and when he looked at her, she stumbled, gripping the edge of the table to keep herself straight.

This time he was closer to her than Desmond; he reached out and caught her arm, then offered her his. It was strange for her to be clumsy two times in such a short interval, however. If
she
was playing games with him now, she would regret it.

"Thanks, but there is no need." She did not take his arm and whispered so that only he could hear. "Last time there was a need, for I had to warn at least one of our besotted lords about the esteemed High Lady's men in the shadows. Now I have truly stumbled, so you can simply let me go."

"Do you want me to let you go?"

He
did not want to. He wanted her touch. Marguerite had touched him, too, but he had not cared to touch her more; in his mind, he had determined what exactly he could get from the High Lady, but he had not cared to get it at all.

Linden did not reply.

"See the flowers in the painting?" A minute later, she opened her pretty mouth. "They are called violets. Armand saw them and was telling me about them: that he grew them, and how sweet they smelled. So sweet, he said, that some peasants in Balkaene believe—in aberration, of course—that if you pick a violet and give it to someone, this someone will fall in love with you."

Linden

Day 30 of the First Quarter—Guilds Day, Year of the Master 706

Linden's foot hurt, but right now she would not show that before Rianor. She gritted her teeth and stepped, letting the foot and the ridiculous high-heeled shoe accept her full weight. This kind of shoes must have been invented by someone like Marguerite, or some male who wanted to keep women helpless.

"It is interesting information that our dear Armand is giving us." Rianor stared at her, and if eyes could pierce his would have gone into her chest, out from her back, and into the wall.

"Our dear Margot had given us interesting information, too. An informative family, are they not?" She stared back at him.

Slowly, Rianor shook his head, and his eyes lost the tiniest bit of the cutting edge. "You are not used to all this, are you? We'll talk later."

"In private?" She could not look into his eyes after she said that.

"It is a beautiful painting." Rianor's voice was expressionless now, but he led her closer to the painting and she complied, even though the movement made sweat break out at her temples and brown spots flash before her eyes. For a moment her senses seemed to sharpen, too. She saw Jenne smiling at them and approaching, even though Jenne was quite into her peripheral vision, and she heard Desmond softly scold Inni about why she had not communicated more with lord Armand. She saw something in the painting, too, but then it was gone.

Linden turned her head towards Desmond. "This is not nice, you know? You are irritated mostly with Rianor, but you are directing your anger at someone who cannot make you shut up with just a look. Inni is not a matchmaking pawn."

Desmond looked at her without expression. "I would think I know my anger better than you do, but if you consider yourself such an expert in human emotions, we may make a Second Counselor out of you yet. If you would learn when to keep silent. As for you"—he looked at Rianor—"You know what I want to say to you, so there is not need to say it, is there, High Lord? Do clear your mind before you talk to members of any other House."

He stormed out of the room after he had let Inni and Jenne know that he was taking them for shopping in ten minutes. He wanted to stay with Rianor, Linden could sense it. But now he had to try to gather information from inconspicuous places without his High Lord being around, and later the House would need its First Counselor for the night. He would take Inni and Jenne home, too. They had rented all three suites not because they needed them, but to not make it obvious they were taking precautions.

Three guards trudged after lord Desmond and the two ladies. Mierenthian nobles had rarely been accompanied by guards in the Fireheart in the last hundred years—but times had changed.

Linden and Rianor would need to leave soon, too, for the Science Guild gathering.

"Excuse me for a moment." She softly extracted herself from his arm and walked stably until she passed the door. Dora, one of the two guards, fell into step a little behind her, and then rushed towards her when Linden had to lean on the wall, barely managing to free herself from the shoes before she would fall. Why was it popular for women, both ladies and commoners, to wear torture devices on their feet? She would have never stumbled and hurt herself, had she been wearing normal shoes. Dora was wearing boots, herself, footwear that looked functional and comfortable. They were green boots, of the special saturated dark color that was one of the two colors of Qynnsent, the same color like that of Dora's trousers and of the blazer she wore over her gray shirt.

"Let me help, my lady." Dora supported her, flashing her a quick smile, even though, from the little Linden had seen of her, her face was usually serious. The smile made her look girlish, even though she was perhaps forty years old.

"No need. Thank you, Dora." Linden smiled back and tried to make another step, but the woman gently stopped her. "No, my lady, I said I would protect you, and protect you I will. I am privileged, you know? Lazar and I threw a coin to see who would be your guard today."

"Really? Why did you both want that?"

The utmost devotion and respect in the woman's eyes was almost enough to make Linden cry. "Because of that night without fire, my lady. I had my day off and was in the city, but my brother, David, was there, and he told me all that happened. He said he was scared, but that you were never scared and thus gave him courage, that he was weak but you gave him and everyone strength. And Lazar was there himself, my lady—he ran that elevator with you." Yes, that was right. Linden had found the time to seek him out and thank him later, but Lazar, quiet and shy, had felt uncomfortable, so she had left him in peace. Rianor had said that he would reward him.

Now Dora looked away, briefly touching a sleeve to her right eye. "The Master must have sent you to us himself, my lady. The lord couldn't have found someone better."

"Thank you." Linden's voice was quiet, but her steps were more certain and her posture more erect, as she squeezed Dora's arm for a moment and walked towards her suite.

"
He couldn't have found someone better.
" Dora's words were like Magic words. They were like the words of that Ber at the firewell, but instead of trying to bend Linden, they had brought her up.

Thank you,
she said once again, this time in her mind, and the first thing she did when she entered the suite was to take the dress off and put on black, simply-cut trousers and a white shirt, followed by an elegant but functional black jacket and soft, comfortable shoes. She may look strange amongst the ladies in the Fireheart now, or she might not look like a lady at all, but so what?
This
was the woman who would make an elevator with Science and use it to save a House; the woman who at other times would write thoughts or draw diagrams all night, until her clothes were stained with ink and her fingers started hurting; the woman who would not even notice this because thinking or talking to Rianor about some idea would be more important—the woman who would not wriggle her hands but would creep inside a shaft to free a stuck rope. Why had she fallen into Jenne's trap of nails and stilettos and laces and silks and what-nots?

At a second thought, she tied a scarf in Qynnsent's dark-green and gray around her neck. The colors fit the lightness of her hair and made the black and white of the rest of her attire livelier, and she could afford to be beautiful when it did not sacrifice the things that truly mattered. And if some people would by any chance prefer a woman with a long blonde hair, blue eyes, high heels, a skimpy dress, and an amount of make-up that could have successfully been used by five women—these particular people should note that they had made a mistake in not choosing what was better.

Even if what was better turned out to still limp, despite the change of shoes.

Linden

Day and evening 30 of the First Quarter, Year of the Master 706

There was a movement and Linden felt it, even though she saw nothing, not even shadows. They walked alone, the leg making her lean on Rianor's arm more than she otherwise would have, Dora and Lazar keeping a respectful distance behind them. Something was amiss, and perhaps it had been amiss before, too, but Marguerite's overbearing presence had prevented her from noticing. Dangerous. She had focused too much on that woman.

She looked at Rianor, and he nodded slightly. So he sensed something, too, but they could not talk in this place. If he wanted to talk to her at all, and if
she
wanted to talk to him. Anyway, who knew what Magic might lurk behind the doors, or who would listen or try to breach their thoughts. There must be Mentors close by, at the Second Temple across the square from the Head Temple of the Bers—Mentors (not counting Octavian) closer to her now than they had been since the night she had met Rianor. The thought was not pleasant. Mentors entered minds, and—Linden shivered with what had not occurred to her before—nobles were not accountable to Mentors but no one had ever said Mentors were
unable
to enter the mind of a noble.

She shivered, buttoning her coat over her jacket, even though they were not yet outside. Rianor looked at her again, his eyes traveling quickly along the full length of her coat, from her neck to her knees where it ended. It was less spread out now that she had trousers and not skirts beneath it.

"You are beautiful," he said and his words jerked her away from where her mind had started drifting. For a moment his voice made her feel almost safe, as if with him beside her, thinking her beautiful despite her lack of a dress, anything lurking behind the corner did not exist—or did not matter. What was wrong with her?

Rianor thinking her beautiful would not save her, or him, or the guards, from something smart enough to lurk behind the corner exactly when she was behaving like a lovesick girl. If
she
had wanted to catch herself at an inopportune moment, she would have deemed now a good time.
Think and be alert. Think
.

There was nothing behind the corner but another painting, this one of a little child sitting in the grass in what looked like a House's garden. Linden's head pulsed with sudden pain when she looked at it. Then the pain disappeared, but she could not get rid of the feeling that something else had disappeared, too.

Rianor's eyes had attained the steely glint again. He stared at the painting for some time, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

"Let us go." She took his hand again and they walked away, faster, until her leg slowed her down again.

"We can go back." Rianor looked at her with concern. "The Science Guild can live without us tonight."

"No." Her back tingled as if it felt someone's—or something's—eyes, but there was nothing when she suddenly snapped her head back to look. Yet, it was there. She knew it; knew it with something other than her eyes. She did not want to go back, not through this dark corridor where silence was almost material and nothing was simply nothing. "Let us go out. Please."

He led her out, silently, to the square where the snow was less gray than that of the street because only feet and no wheels had been trampling it. Her unease subsided slightly with the brisk wind on her face. A few snowflakes came with it, dancing alongside their heads, and she reached a hand out, a snowflake nestling in her glove, captured amongst the fine threads. It sparkled, catching what light it could from the cloudy sky, then melted. Fickle things, snowflakes. Rianor did not see it at all, for his narrowed eyes were set on the far left of the square, where the Head Temple's spiked gates loomed against the gray sky.

They were always open, the outer gates, the gates of spiked metal. Only if disaster struck Mierenthia itself would they close. Only then would the vaults beneath the Head Temple and all temples in the world open, to accept and protect the innocent who called Mierenthia their home. Or so said the teachers and Mentors. And teachers and Mentors were known to lie.

The inside doors, the doors of the building itself, were wood, set against walls of hard stone. Like the Inner Sanctum. Linden had been inside the temple today, but she could not remember the Ceremony better than she could a dream.