Raven's Strike (31 page)

“The Weaver knew that without his brother, his powers would also destroy the All of Being, so he drank the same potion the Stalker had drunk. They slept, the Weaver and the Stalker. And while they slept, the Weaver dreamed a weaving to cover them both and protect his creations from them when they next awoke.”

The Scholar quit speaking.

“That doesn't sound like the end of the story,” Seraph said.

“The story of the Weaver and the Stalker will not end until the All of Being ends,” said the Scholar. “And at that time there will be no one to tell its end.”

Hennea sighed and started to say something but was stopped by noise from the stairway.

Gura was the first to reach them, whining and wagging his tail and trying to wriggle his way onto Seraph's lap. Since he outweighed her by a couple of stones she was hard put to save herself until Tier hauled him off by his collar.

“Gura, down,” he said, and the dog dropped to the floor and looked repentant for a moment. Seraph sat up and rubbed his side with the toe of her boot, and he wagged his tail cheerfully.

Jes had come with Tier, and the Guardian was staring at the Scholar, who had not changed his expression—or his focus on Hennea.

“Where are the others?” she asked.

“I left them cooking steaks at camp. Since we'll be here a while, Lehr brought down a buck. Jes and I came to get you for dinner.” Tier glanced at the illusion, then he looked again, frowning. “Your friend is welcome to come with us.”

“Thank you,” said the Scholar, turning toward Tier as if he'd just noticed him. “But I do not need to eat, and I may not leave the library.” He paused. “It is good that you stay outside of the city. The dead walk the streets at night.”

“It's an illusion,” Hennea told Tier. “One of Hinnum's.”

“It told us a story,” said Seraph. “I think you ought to hear it. Scholar, would you tell the story of the Weaver and the Stalker?”

“Of course.”

When the Scholar finished, Tier rubbed his jaw, and said, “So the Stalker wasn't something created by the wizards here?”

“No,” said the Scholar.

“The stories are wrong,” Seraph said.

“So why did the wizards leave?” Tier asked Seraph. “Why freeze the city this way? Why is the library the only thing that isn't frozen in time?”

“There was nothing here for them. It was part of the price for what they had done. They could not bear to lose the library forever.”

Hennea frowned. “If they didn't create the Stalker, what had they done?”

For the first time, the smile fell from the illusion's face and left something very old peering out of the young eyes. “They
killed the gods,” he whispered; and then he was gone as if he'd never been.

The Guardian growled.

Back at camp, Tier told the story of the Stalker to the others, as they cooked venison over the fire. As far as Seraph could tell, he used the same words the Scholar had twice used.

“I thought the Stalker was supposed to be evil,” said the Emperor, feeding the last of his fire-roasted meat to Gura, who accepted it with more politeness than enthusiasm. The dog had discovered during their trip that Phoran and his guards were not as hardened to pleading eyes as his usual family and had been making use of this new power throughout supper.

“That's what the stories I've always heard say,” agreed Seraph.

“So it isn't the Stalker that caused the fall of the Elder Wizards?” Lehr leaned back on his elbows and stared thoughtfully at the fire.

“Ellevanal told me the Travelers killed their gods and ate them.” Seraph braced her elbows on her knees and leaned her chin on her hands. “My father just told me there were no gods, but Hennea—and the Scholar—say the gods are dead.”

“I don't know where I heard it,” said Hennea, and Jes rubbed her shoulder gently.

Hennea had been quiet since they left the library, but then, being a Raven, that wasn't unusual for her. Seraph would have dismissed her suspicions that Hennea was upset about something, except Jes had been fussing over her.

“The Shadowed is evil,” said Lehr with conviction. “He killed a whole town, a town larger than Redern. He killed Benroln, Brewydd, and all of Rongier's clan. He taught the wizards of the Path how to steal Orders.”

“The Shadowed is evil,” agreed Seraph.

Phoran cleared his throat, and Seraph turned to look at him. He glanced once at the setting sun, then said, “I ought to mention that the Memory came last night. I asked him if he knew who the Shadowed was, but he didn't. I wonder if you have a question you would like me to ask him tonight?”

“I do,” said Seraph, before anyone else could say anything. “I'd like to know the details of the second part of the spell that steals the Orders to tie them to the gems.”

That night, when the Memory beckoned Phoran, Seraph went with him. She made everyone else stay back in camp.

“If it was willing to come out with everyone here, it wouldn't force Phoran to come to it,” she said, staring first at Jes, then at Toarsen and Kissel. “I will see to it that Phoran comes to no harm—and he will do the same for me.”

“Now mind you,” she told Phoran as they tromped up to the little rise he'd gone to the night before “Jes is going to follow us anyway. There's nothing I can do about that—but he'll stay out of my sight, and hopefully not interfere with the Memory.”

Phoran smiled down at her. “If
I'd
tried to leave Toarsen and Kissel behind, we'd still be arguing.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But you are only an emperor, after all, and I am Raven.”

He couldn't tell if she was teasing or not. He rather suspected not.

The Memory came again. It said nothing to him, nor did it appear to notice Seraph. It fed from his wrist this time. Phoran had thought it would be less awful with Seraph there, but somehow it was worse. As if, he thought, someone was witnessing his rape, it increased the humiliation and feeling of violation. The pain was as bad as it ever had been.

When it was finished, the Memory said, “By the taking of your blood, I owe you one answer. Choose your question.”

Phoran staggered to his feet and felt Seraph's arm come round his waist to help support him.

Phoran tried to remember what Seraph had told him she needed to know. “There are three parts to the spell that the Masters use to steal the Orders from Travelers and bind them to gemstones. What happens in the second of the three parts.”

“The Masters take the gem, already bound to the Order, and they place it in a man's mouth. He is the sacrifice to power the spell. They cut his throat, and when he is dead they remove the gem.” The Memory swayed and its voice changed,
rough with remembered agony. “They took it, still warm from the dead man's last breath, and touched me with it. I could feel it pull, I knew that something bad was happening.”

“This happens immediately,” asked Seraph urgently. “You knew right away?”

“Yes,” said the Memory, but it didn't sound like the Memory anymore. It sounded like a man in pain.

“Tier would have known if it started before that night in the Tavern.”

Phoran didn't think that Seraph was speaking to the Memory anymore, but it said, “Yes.” And it was gone.

“Come,” said Seraph, stepping away from him until she held him by the arm rather than around the waist. “I need to talk with Lehr and Tier.”

Phoran felt so tired, so weary, and the camp seemed a long way away.

“Come,” Seraph said more gently. “Your Memory has give us a different clue than I expected.”

“What do you mean?” Phoran started the long trek back to camp.

“I thought I'd learn something of the magic they used,” she said. “And I did—though nothing that I can use. But it might have given us a clue about the Shadowed.”

They hadn't gone far before Jes joined them. Without asking, he pulled Phoran's arm around his shoulder.

“Lean on me,” he said.

Toarsen and Kissel came next.

“They didn't listen to
you
either,” Phoran whispered to Seraph.

She laughed. “At least they didn't bother arguing.”

They set Phoran down upon his bedroll, and Seraph tucked him in with all the expertise that his nurse had had when he was a child younger than Rinnie.

“There now,” she told him. “Go to sleep.”

But he didn't, he just closed his eyes and listened.

Seraph moved away from Phoran and lowered her voice. “Lehr, Olbeck was Shadowed when you found him attacking Rinnie and Phoran.”

“That's right,” he agreed. “That's what Jes says. I told you Akavith said Olbeck killed poor Lukeeth.”

“Lukeeth died the day Tier was stricken,” she said. “As best I can piece it together.”

“What did you find out?” asked Tier, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She held his hand with her own. “Wait,” she said. “Lehr?”

“I don't remember exactly, but either that day or the day before,” he agreed.

“Tier, do you remember anyone touching you the day we noticed there was something wrong with your Order?”

“I was at the shop all morning, Seraph,” he said. “Of course people touched me.”

“Tell me who,” she said turning around to face him so he could see her urgency. “Tell me. Not everyone you talked to, just the ones who touched you, Tier.” He was a Bard. He could remember them all.

“Alinath and Bandor, of course,” he said slowly. “The Brewmaster came with breadmother to replace the one we lost. The miller brought flour. Ciro and his son. Those were the only ones who touched me—that I remember, anyway.”

“What about at the tavern?”

“Regil touched me when he gave me his lute. I shook Willon's hand.”

“One of them was the Shadowed,” Seraph said.

Phoran sat up. “The Shadowed is a Rederni? Redern is a very small place, Seraph. Surely someone would notice that one of them wasn't aging as he should.”

“Willon.” Rinnie's voice was very soft. “Willon's store is right below the Temple of the Five. Those tunnels weren't just below the temple, they were behind his shop. Maybe he found them when they dug his shop deeper into the mountain.”

“Willon was in Taela when I found Tier imprisoned,” said Phoran. “I saw him at his son's shop.”

“The Shadowed wouldn't have a son,” said Hennea. “Birth is not one of the Stalker's powers.”

“Master Emtarig isn't really Willon's son,” said Phoran slowly. “I don't remember who told me, but Willon's wife died without giving him children, and he adopted one of his apprentices, an orphan.”

“Willon told me about the plague at Colbern,” Tier said, sounding stunned. “They rode past Colbern on the way back from Taela, he said. But surely Lehr or Jes would have noticed if Willon were the Shadowed.”

“They didn't know what he was until the Memory had stripped him of some of his magics.” Hennea tapped her fingers impatiently. “But if it were Willon, where are the bodies? The Shadowed has to feed upon death.”

“Colbern,” said Lehr.

“He used to leave a couple of times a year,” said Seraph. “He could have been off hunting, then.”

“The temples,” said the Guardian. “I sat outside his temple in Redern and felt the feeding, but I didn't understand what it was. I didn't remember enough. The Stalker was not the Lord of Death, but the Lord of Destruction. The Unnamed King did not just feed upon death, but upon the pain and suffering that came before the death. Emotions feed the Shadowed—hatred, envy, the kinds of things that consumed Bandor before Hennea freed him from the taint.”

“Willon came to Redern just after I returned from the wars with Seraph,” Tier said. “He could have followed us after I killed the man who the Path sent for Seraph when her brother died. But I thought the Shadowed wasn't supposed to age? Willon is older now than he was then.”

Seraph shook her head. “Illusion. He wouldn't need much, not enough I'd notice anyway. There's a little bit of magic around Redern all the time.”

“Mehalla,” said Jes, his voice a low throbbing growl that raised the hair on the back of Seraph's neck.

Seraph felt as if someone had clubbed her. He was right. Oh, sweet Lark, he was right.

“She was so sick,” Tier whispered. “She got sick in the spring and just never got better. She lingered for months and months.”

“She had convulsions,” Lehr said. “I remember watching Mother hold her down so she wouldn't hurt herself.”

“Who is Mehalla?” Phoran asked.

“My daughter,” whispered Seraph. “My daughter the Lark. She was just a toddler. He must have thought she was easy prey.”

Tier's arm slid across the front of her shoulders and pulled her back against his chest. “He killed my daughter.”

Tier was behind her, but she saw Phoran meet his gaze.

“My Emperor,” said Tier in a silky-sweet voice. “We will see you freed of your Memory as soon as we return to Redern.”

C
HAPTER
15

“The Scholar felt a lot of guilt and despair for something not alive,”
said Jes, who had appointed himself escort to Seraph and Hennea, as the three of them walked to the library. Everyone else, including the dog, had gone out exploring together.

“Hinnum created him,” Hennea answered Jes before Seraph could. “He was the greatest of the Colossae wizards. I suppose if he could create the
mermori,
he could also create an illusion that empaths could feel.”

“Why would he do that to something that exists to help people find information?” Jes asked rather reasonably—for Jes.

“Is that why you insisted on coming today?” asked Seraph. She wasn't ready to put limits on an illusion created by Hinnum either, but she also found herself agreeing with Jes.

“The Guardian doesn't trust him because he has no scent,” Jes said with a shrug. “I explained the Scholar is an illusion, but neither the Guardian nor I think that an illusion should be so interested in Hennea.”

The main room of the library was empty when they arrived, but there was a book lying open on one of the tables.

Seraph picked it up. It seemed to be a general treatise of some sort on magic, open to a chapter on the “Aspects of
Man”—whatever that meant. However, it had obviously been left out for them, so she started reading.

Hennea hovered briefly over her shoulder, then walked to one of the bookshelves and began perusing titles. Jes paced restlessly back and forth for a while.

Finally, he came to stand in front of Seraph.

“If you want to go out and explore, go do so,” she told him without looking up. “Just be careful. We'll be fine. It doesn't look as though the Scholar is going to come out today.”

He sniffed the air. “All right,” he said. “But I'll be back in a little while.”

She heard his rapid footsteps down the stairs and the click of the outside door as it shut behind him.

“I didn't finish the story of the Stalker yesterday,” said the Scholar's voice as soon as Jes was gone.

Seraph looked up from her book to see the illusion standing in front of Hennea.

“Nor did I tell you why the wizards were forced to sacrifice this city,” he said.

“No,” agreed Hennea, reshelving a book she'd taken out. “I wondered why you didn't.”

The Scholar stared at her with that half smile that seemed more of a mask than an expression. “Make yourself comfortable, and I will tell you.”

Seraph set her book aside and sat down on the other end of the bench where Hennea was sitting down.

“The Weaver created a binding that would keep both him and his twin from interacting directly with his creations. But he could not completely isolate them, because eventually their power would build and destroy his bindings. Instead he created six gods who would control the power of the Weaver and of the Stalker.”

The Scholar paused.

“The Orders,” said Hennea hoarsely, though Seraph couldn't see anything in what the Scholar had said that ought to have bothered her. “The Raven, the Owl, the Falcon, the Eagle, the Lark, and the Cormorant. Magic, music, the hunt, the guardian, healing, and storms.”

“Magic, music, hunt, war, healing, and wind,” corrected the Scholar.

“The Guardian is not an Order of soldiers,” Hennea argued.

“No,” agreed the Scholar, but he did not elaborate upon his answer.

“Something broke the bindings on the Stalker,” said Seraph. “The Elder Wizards sacrificed the city to bind the Stalker. Not because they created the Stalker, but because something they did loosed the god of destruction.” Or so she'd been taught.

“The gods ruled this world for a very long time,” the Scholar said, and Seraph couldn't tell if he'd even noticed what she'd said. “Long enough for a small village to become a town, then a great city. Long enough for the wizards to become arrogant and fall away from the worship of gods. ‘What good praying to the Cormorant who might or might not answer?' they asked themselves. ‘If you bring your gold to Korsack or Terilia or one of the other wind witches, they will do your will as long as you are the first or most generous with your gold.' ”

The Scholar reached out as if he might touch Hennea, but then pulled both hands behind his back.

“It didn't help that the gods no longer granted the gifts they had once freely given. The great city had no desperate need for a legendary warrior or a gifted healer. They did not depend upon their crops to survive, and so they needed no god-gifted weather mage. So the gods gave less, were worshiped less, but they were not unhappy with Colossae—perhaps just indifferent.”

The Scholar closed his eyes. “Except for the Raven, for Colossae was Her city. The city of wizards.”

No matter what her magic told her, Seraph was having increasing difficulty in believing that this was an illusion—or at least
just
an illusion.

“Children were taken to the Raven's temple on their name days,” he said quietly. “The Raven's priests would tell them if they were mageborn or not. If they were, then the oracle would tell them what areas of magic would be their specialty. Sometimes, the Raven herself came and blessed them with a gift of her own magic, which the child could use without need of study or ritual.”

“Like the Raven's Order,” said Seraph.

“Yes.”

There was a long silence.

“What happened?” whispered Hennea intently, and she leaned forward. “Something terrible happened.”

“Yes.” The Scholar took a half step away from Hennea. “Something terrible happened. There was a boy. He had the power to be a successful wizard, having been blessed by the goddess herself, but he had no dedication. He would not study—he had no need to earn a living because his father was a great wizard and so had accumulated great wealth.”

He turned his back to them and stared at the great rows of books. “This boy fell in love with a maiden who loved him in return—so long as his father's gold was more than that of any of her other suitors. The day came when she found another, richer, man. When the boy reproached her, she told him that she preferred a man adept in the fighting arts rather than a half-trained wizard.”

The Scholar sighed. “The boy could not bear the rejection. If she wanted a fighting man, he would become one. Remember though, that he was a lazy young man, used to buying his way through life. So instead of hiring an instructor and learning, he went to the war god's temple.”

“The Eagle,” said Seraph.

“Aythril, the god of war,” agreed the Scholar, his back still toward them. “The war god's priestess laughed at the boy's plea for the gift of martial arts. The war god would never have given his gifts to a man so obviously unworthy. She told the boy that if he trained for a year and a day, she would petition the war god on his behalf. The boy was angry and offended, for he was proud.”

The Scholar bowed his head. “He went to his father, an old wizard and powerful. People walked softly in his presence because he was quick to take offense—and the priestess's words offended him greatly.”

“Hinnum?” asked Seraph.

The Scholar turned back and met Seraph's eyes. “No, not Hinnum, though there are sins enough to lie on his shoulders. Ontil the Peacock was the wizard's name. He saw the priestess's words as an attack on his standing, and so he vowed to take the gifts that the priestess would not willingly give. He
hid himself here”—the Scholar waved a hand around the library—“and for a year he studied and buried himself in obscure texts.”

He looked at Hennea again, though she wasn't looking at him at all. She was staring at her hands.

“The old wizard had help in his endeavor. He was not well liked, but, as I said, he was powerful, and there were many who feared him or sought his favor. One night, with four dozen lesser mages, he called the war god's power to his son. But the power of the war god is not held lightly—fifty mages died that night. Fifty mages and a god.”

“Do you remember, Raven?” The Scholar leaned forward and touched Hennea lightly on the shoulder.

Seraph frowned, but there was nothing magical in the Scholar's touch, she would have felt it. Why did he think Hennea would remember any of this?

Hennea flinched away from his hand and came to her feet. “Thank you,” she said in a distracted tone. “I'm going to take a walk.”

The Scholar watched Hennea disappear down the stairs and continued to watch until the sound of the outer door shutting rang through the room.

“You are not just an illusion,” said Seraph.

The Scholar looked at her, no smile upon his face at all. “A child was born that night. A little girl. Rage such as no child should have gave power to her voice, the rage of a murdered god, and the very walls shook with His power in a baby's cries. She was taken to the Lark's temple, where the Lark Herself sent her to sleep until something could be done.”

Seraph sat back down, abandoning her half-formed intention to follow Hennea. “Guardian,” she said.

The Scholar shook his head. “Almost, you understand. A god is immortal, we thought. They cannot die. But Ontil proved us wrong. Only the Stalker and the Weaver are immortal. And that part of them that made the Eagle a god survived his death, though it survived broken and torn, tainted by the wrath of a murdered god.”

“In the child.”

“Years passed.” The Scholar gave Seraph the same intensity of attention he had given to Hennea. “Years in which it
became obvious to the wizards that the god of destruction was awaking. Not just in Colossae, but all over the world we heard of mountains falling to the earth and oceans heaving themselves beyond their boundaries.”

“Hinnum, the city's greatest wizard, went to the Raven for help—as he had all of his long life.”

“He was four centuries old,” Seraph said.

The illusion's eyes brightened with temper. “Four and a half. I—
He
knelt before Her statue in Her temple and pleaded for aid.” Seraph realized it had not been temper alone that had brightened his eyes because a tear slid down his face. “She used to walk with him in the gardens here, because Hinnum was Her favorite. They would argue and bicker like children and when his third, most beloved, wife died, She held him through the night while he cried.”

“She loved him,” Seraph whispered.

“Like a son,” he said. “Her love and Her Consort was the Eagle.”

Seraph sucked in her breath, caught up in his story. “And wizards used the gifts She had given them to kill Him.”

The Scholar nodded. “She blamed Herself, and She blamed us.” He closed his eyes briefly. “She was so angry. While Hinnum prayed, he heard others enter, but until the Owl spoke he didn't realize who had come into the Raven's temple. It was the first time he'd seen any of the other gods.”

He sat down beside Seraph, taking her hands in his own. “The Owl was . . . was like your husband. Even frightened as I was I could not help returning Her smile. She lifted me to my feet, and I saw the Others.” He paused, and Seraph decided not to point out that he'd claimed to be Hinnum again. She would wait until he was finished with what he had to tell her. Hinnum, she thought, Hinnum would know how to save her husband and how to kill the Shadowed—and somehow this illusion was Hinnum.

“The Hunter was not a big man”—the Scholar was saying—“nor did He speak much, but when he was in the room, I was always aware of him, even in the presence of the other gods. The Cormorant looked just like the statue in His temple—they all did really—but the Cormorant looked as though a smile belonged on His face. He wasn't smiling, but I
could see that was the expression he was most comfortable with. I didn't like the Lark. I don't know why. Maybe it was the way that She held the child who slept in Her arms, the child who bore the rage and power of the god of war—as if she were a stone or rock, not a child who suffered for other people's sins.”

The Scholar pulled his hands away from Seraph's and covered his face. “The Owl called my Lady, and forced the Raven to come to Her Call. Ah, Raven who was, that I could have died before that day.”

He sighed and let his hands fall limply to his sides. When he spoke again, he continued his story with more dispassion.

“When the Raven came, the Lark showed Her the sleeping child, and said, ‘I am no more powerful than your consort was, Raven. In another month I shall not be able to hold His anger asleep in this child. And then his power will ravage this world, and nothing will be able to hold it in check.'

“ ‘This isn't about the child, or about the Eagle.' said the Cormorant. ‘It is about the Weaver and the Stalker. The Eagle's death has weakened the binding that holds them. We must restore the balance.' ”

The Scholar looked down at his lap. “Then the Weaver spoke. I don't know what he said because his voice overwhelmed me, and I fainted. When I came to myself, only Raven was there, sitting beside me and stroking my hair.”