Scar Felice (The Fourth Age of Shanakan Book 3) (12 page)

After a while he raised his eyes from the plate and stared directly at her, and she could feel the horror in his gaze give way to resentment, perhaps even hatred, and she looked away. He rose, placed a coin carefully on the table and strode out of the door, not sparing her another glance.

Felice was troubled by what she had seen, though it meant nothing to her. She finished her meal, which was very good, and drank her wine.

“You’re new here, Ima”

She looked up to find the landlord standing before her. He was a clean shaven, tidy man and spoke with an educated voice. His eyes were kind, but there was something about them that spoke of a shrewd nature.

“Yes,” she said. “I am only here for a couple of days.”

He nodded. “Did you like the food? Was it good?”

“Very good,” she said.

“You will recommend this place to your friends in the castle?”

“If I had such friends I would do so,” she smiled.

The landlord shrugged. “Just my luck,” he said. “It is hard to make a living here without the castle trade.”

“The town will grow.”

“Perhaps, but I wish I had gone with my brother to Woodside. He was always the clever one, but I was always the better cook.”

“Your brother has a tavern in Woodside?”

“An inn. It is the largest and finest in the town. He told me that Woodside would be the centre of everything, but I thought I knew better. I should have listened.”

“I thought that Woodside was a village.”

“And so it was, but the population has tripled, and now that the great college has been built it will triple again.”

“Then I will give my regards to your brother. I may even stay at his inn.”

“You are going to Woodside? There will be no rooms, Ima, not at this time, but if you mention my name he may find you a bed. Just tell him that Haken sent you.”

“I am grateful,” she said. “I shall certainly recommend your food to whoever will listen.”

She left the tavern and walked back through the straggle of houses that made up the town. There was a shop of sorts close to the walls. She stopped and inspected the goods for sale, casting her expert eye over everything. She talked with the storekeeper for a while and bought a few small trinkets, more out of politeness than want. She left the store and made her way between two buildings to shorten her path back to the fortress where she was expected for the evening meal.

As she passed the end of one of the houses a figure leaped out and seized her from behind. A hand clamped across her mouth and another pressed a blade against her throat. Whoever it was seemed immensely strong, and though she struggled and kicked back at his legs he did not slacken his grip.

“Do not move,” he whispered. “Do not fight, or I will cut your throat.”

She stopped moving.

“Now I am going to take my hand from your mouth,” he said. “Do not try anything. Just tell me how you found me.”

After a deliberate pause, and a small but very obvious increase in the pressure of the knife on her throat, the hand was removed.

“I don’t know…” she began, but the hand clamped back.

“Just tell me, Ekloi, and maybe I will let you live.”

The hand lifted again.

“Who is Ekloi?” she managed before the hand clamped down.

He was silent for a while. Trying to make up his mind about something, she thought.

“I sense magic about you,” he said. “You must be Ekloi, for you are not Serhan.” She shook her head as well as she could, knowing that she was out of her depth, and in great danger. “No? Then what is the magic?” The hand lifted yet again.

“Knife,” she said. “The knife is magic.”

The blade left her throat for a moment, and she felt Pathfinder lifted from its sheath, heard a disturbing chuckle from the man behind her.

“So tell me who you are, bearer of magic blades.”

“I am a trader,” she said when the hand allowed. “I am from East Scar, and the blade was a gift.”

The hand clamped down again, and yet again there was a pause as her attacker thought things through. She was suddenly pulled away from the wall and her back slammed into the opposite side of the alley. The knife was still near her throat, but now she could see the face of her attacker. She was not completely surprised that it was the man from the tavern, the one who had stared at her with such resentment. He studied her face for a moment, and then withdrew his blade.

“You tell the truth,” he said. Pathfinder was held out to her, hilt first, and she took it back. The man made no effort to leave, however, and stood before her, staring at her.

“Who is Ekloi, that you fear him so much?” she asked.

“They. They are Ekloi. They hunt me.”

“Why?”

“That I cannot tell you.”

“You must know why.”

“I know.”

There was something familiar in the way that the man spoke, but she could not place it. He seemed to have lost interest in her now that he had established that she was no threat, but Felice was curious.

“What are the Ekloi?” she asked.

“It is not your place to know. You must not ask questions.”

“But perhaps I can help you.” She regretted the words almost as soon as they were spoken. They came from a real desire to help this frightened, violent man, but she already had too much to cope with, and in two days she was leaving for Woodside.

“You?” He sounded scornful. “How can you help?”

“I don’t know,” she said. But perhaps she did. The knife, pathfinder, was made to find the way, but the way to what? What would happen if she asked it to find the Ekloi? Would it even know what an Ekloi was?

“Perhaps I can find the Ekloi,” she said.

The man looked at her as though she was mad. “Why?” he asked. “How?”

“If it will help you…”

“Why would you help me?”

“You need help.”

He seemed to study her for a minute, and then he smiled. It was an odd smile, not friendly, but private. He was smiling to himself as though she was not there at all.

“As you wish,” he said. “You find the Ekloi and tell me.”

“So what am I looking for?”

“A man who is not a man. The Ekloi will look the same as any other, but he is not from here.”

“Not from White Rock?”

“Not from this world.”

“All men are from this world.”

“No,” the man said. “No men are. Listen to the Shan and their tales. Most have been born here, though, but not the Ekloi.”

She studied his face again, searching for any sign of humour, of a joke, but he seemed quite serious. She had never heard such an outlandish idea.

“So if I find a man who was not born on this world, who can wield magic, then I come and tell you?”

“Yes,” he said. He smiled again, quickly, and then the smile was gone, like a light turning on and off.

“Just one more thing: what will the Ekloi do if they catch you?”

“They will kill me.”

The thought occurred to her that he was mad. After all, he had attacked her for no reason, other than she had been looking at him in the tavern. He had sensed the knife, of course, but could he really sense magic, or had he just accepted what she had said? She knew of no other who had such a talent, but then she did not move in such circles. Perhaps it would be best to report the whole incident to someone in the castle and let them deal with it.

“I will find you at the tavern?”

“If you come to the town I will find you,” he said.

“And what is your name?” she asked.

He smiled again, as though at a private joke. “Raganesh,” he said, and his eyes were on her as he spoke the word, expecting a reaction, but the name meant nothing to her.

She left him standing in the alleyway. He watched her as far as he could. She glanced back from time to time, but he did not move, and then he was hidden by the walls. She hurried back towards the path that ascended to the castle. He must be mad, and even if he was not, then she did not know which side she should be on, other than he had spared her life when he believed that she was not an Ekloi.

She would report him. Probably.

The banging on the door went on and on.

“All right, I’m coming,” Keran muttered to himself. He put down the polishing cloth and took off the gloves that he had been wearing to polish the silver, carefully, so that none of the polish would touch his hands. He walked through the kitchen. Netra the cook was stirring something in a great pot set over the range.

“I’m busy,” she said in reply to his unspoken rebuke. “You want to eat tonight, don’t you?”

Keran said nothing. Now was not the time for a discussion about duties and the fair division of labour. He hurried up the stairs and down the long passageway that led to the main door. The child Helena was in the hallway, making her way determinedly towards the sound of the knocking.

“I have the door, mistress,” he said, putting on his best voice. What a place this was when the master’s blind daughter rushed to attend the door and the cook did not. He loved the child as though she was his own. She embodied her dead mother’s gentleness and her father’s imagination and courage, and she had what they called the common touch. She was never rude or inconsiderate, even to the lowliest kitchen boy. He would have done anything for her. The blindness, a curse that she bore with great nobility of spirit, was her only imperfection.

“Thank you, Keran,” she said. “You will let me know who it is? It must be very important for them to make so much noise.”

“I will, mistress.”

He waited, ignoring the door, until she had passed out of sight back towards the courtyard. She sat there in the sun when not otherwise occupied. It was her favourite place.

When the child had gone he went to the great door and drew back the two big iron bolts that held it fast. He lifted the latch and heaved on the iron ring and it swung inwards, allowing sunlight to flood into the hallway, painting the white walls the colour of fresh cream. He peered out into the bright day.

“Mayor Candros,” he said. “How may I serve you?” He was surprised to see the mayor, a respected and popular figure in Pek, standing before the door. Though still a young man, Finn Candros was starting to show grey streaks in his thick, fair hair. He was so conscientious in his duty to the city that it was rare for him to call at any house.

“Is Captain Pelorus at home?”

With a trader of Pelorus’s stamp as his master Keran had picked up a trick or two about reading people, and he could see that they mayor was quite agitated. He was adopting an almost deferential tone with a servant.

“I regret that he is not,” Keran said.

Another voice spoke, from someone that he could not see beyond the frame of the door.

“It does not matter. Is the child at home?”

The mayor raised an eyebrow, passing the question on to Keran.

“Mistress Helena is at home,” he replied. He did not like this much. People coming to see Helena when the master was not in the house was quite irregular. “Who shall I say is asking to speak with her?”

The mayor stepped to one side, and another figure stepped into the bright frame of the doorway.

“I am Borbonil of Ocean’s Gate, and people here have named me Lord Protector of the city of Pek.”

Keran fell to his knees. He was suddenly very afraid. This was a Faer Karani. He had seen Borbonil once before, two years ago when the creature had come to Pek at Serhan’s command. It had healed thousands, repaired buildings, driven out the Saratan invaders, but it was still Faer Karan, and could extinguish a human life as casually as he could snuff out a candle.

“Forgive me, lord,” he said. “I did not know that it was you.”

“Stand,” Borbonil said. “Ask the girl if she will speak with me.”

“At once, Lord,” Keran stood and backed away from the door, still bowing as best he could, then he turned and hurried through to the courtyard. Helena was there, sitting on the edge of the pond that lay at the centre, trailing a hand in the cool water. Golden fish, each twice the length of a man’s hand swam about her fingers. It was a dance that he had watched many times. She was singing in a low voice, and the sound of it was sweet and untroubled. She raised her head at the sound of his footfall.

“Keran? Who was it?”

“Mistress, it is the Faer Karani, Borbonil, Lord Protector of Pek. He wishes to speak with you. Will you see him?” For all his fear Keran knew that he would carry the answer faithfully whatever it was. Part of him wanted her to say no, because he did not like to think of such a creature within these walls, alone with Helena, and partly because it was actually possible to say no.

“Really?” She seemed thrilled at the thought. “Is he very frightening, Keran?”

“Only in what he is, Mistress. He seems polite.”

“Then I will see him. I confess that I am very curious. What does he look like?”

“He has the appearance of a man, Mistress, but that his face is smoother and his eyes have no colour in them. They are plain white. Are you sure that you wish him to enter the house?”

“Of course. Please bring him to me.”

“As you wish.” He walked back to the front door where the Faer Karani waited. He walked slowly, composing himself. When he got there the mayor and Borbonil were waiting with every appearance of patience.

“My mistress is prepared to see you, my lord,” he announced.

The creature turned to the mayor. “Finn,” he said, “I do not think that I need to trouble you more. Thank you again for being my guide.”

“It is an honour,” the mayor replied, executed a shallow bow and set off down the road towards the heart of the city.

“Now you will show me to the girl Helena,” Borbonil said.

Keran led the way. He noticed that the creature made no sound at all walking on the stone flags of the hallway, almost as if he were no more than a ghost, drifting along with less substance than a play of light and shadow. They entered the courtyard, and Keran saw that Helena had moved from the pool and now sat in one of two chairs that stood in the sun by the north wall. She looked composed and smiled as she heard him approach.

“Have you brought our guest, Keran?” She looked faintly puzzled. She had expected to hear two sets of footsteps, he realised, and hearing only one, thought that he had returned alone.

“Yes, mistress. He is unusually quiet,” he replied.

“You are Helena Pelorus, daughter of Jem Pelorus?” Borbonil asked.

“Yes, I am,” she said, her face turning like a flower towards the sound. “And you are the mighty Borbonil, Lord Protector of Pek, master of Ocean’s Gate, formerly one of the six, ally of the great mage lord Serhan.”

“You are both generous and knowledgeable in your appellation,” he replied.

“Please sit,” she said. “If you sit in the chair then I will know where you are so that I may give the appearance of attending to you. I am blind, you see.”

“So I have been told.”

Keran retired from the courtyard, but stood just out of sight inside a doorway where he could respond quickly to any need.

“I am honoured by your visit,” Helena said, “but puzzled as to the reason.”

“Do you know the woman Felice Caledon?”

“Yes! Felice stayed with us for a few weeks, not long ago. She was kind to me. She read to me most days. She was quite sick at the time, and left for Samara when she had recovered, though we were both sorry to see her go. You have word of her? I hope that she is well…?”

“As far as I know her health is good. She is at White Rock.”

“Already? That was a quick journey.”

“An eventful one, I believe. Do you wish me to tell you the tale?”

“If you would be so kind!”

Borbonil was not a great raconteur. He tended to speak facts, clipping them together into short, functional sentences, and his tone carried nothing of the mood, the drama of the story that he told. Never the less, Helena sat in silence, attending to every word he spoke, making appreciative noises at all the pivotal points in the tale.

When he finished she was silent for a few moments.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said. “It is always a delight to received good news of a friend, and it has been a most welcome distraction, but you did not tell me why you had come.”

“I have not,” the Faer Karani confirmed. “In truth I cannot tell you why I am here, other than I was asked to come, and I have learned that the Faer Karan are not gifted with understanding in the ways of men, and so I have come to learn.”

“I am not sure what you are saying.”

“Felice Caledon asked me to come here.”

“To visit me? Why?”

“She said that you were deserving of healing, that you had been cheated by fate through your absence last time I was in the city, when I healed at Serhan’s command.”

“She asked you to heal me?”

“Yes.”

“And will you do this?” Keran could hear tension in the child’s voice, though it did not sound like excitement. He saw at that moment that she was no longer a child. She aped the behaviour that was expected of her, but in her heart there was a seed of bitterness, a lack of expectation in dealing with the world. All her life she had been imprisoned here in an unchanging house, held there by her father’s concern, and only allowed out when guarded, accompanied, protected. Borbonil’s words raised the possibility of the unhoped for release, but she could not believe it.

“She said that it was a favour,” the Faer Karani said. “And that a favour was something that the asked could grant or not grant, and so I have come to see for myself.”

“And what is it that you expect to see, my lord?”

“I expected nothing. I came to learn.”

“You will learn very little here, my lord.”

“I believe that you are right, but I learned much when Serhan sent me to Pek. More was revealed to me in two days than I had gathered in four hundred years on the subject of men and their ways.”

“The mage lord is wise,” she said.

“It is my belief that you are correct, and he has already remarked that there may be some qualities of interest in Felice Caledon.”

“What qualities?”

“He did not say. I have found that he says very little that is direct. He prefers his servants to acquire the habit of judgement.”

“Have you arrived at a judgement then, my lord?”

“Because I understand nothing I have learned to rely on the judgement of others,” Borbonil said. “The difficulty is that people disagree – even those who are deemed wise. Did you see as a child, or have you always been without sight?”

“Always, my lord.”

“Then you may suffer some pain and disorientation when sight returns.”

Keran stepped out from the corridor at these words, and saw that the Faer Karani had leaned across and placed his hand on Helena’s head. He saw the girl jump at the touch, surprised, and then the creature began to speak words, but it was no language that he had ever heard. He expected to see some visible manifestation of power, some glowing light or even lightning striking from the skies, but there was nothing. The words were spoken, and Borbonil removed his hand.

“You should keep your eyes closed for a while,” he said. “The images that you see will be confusing. There will be no sense to it until your mind has learned how to manage what it receives.”

“But I want to see!”

Helena opened her eyes and cried out, immediately closing them again and covering her face with her hands.

“It hurts!” she said. “It is so…”

“Bright,” Borbonil said. “It is bright. The sun is shining, and to look upon the sun would be to lose your sight again.” He looked up and saw Keran. “You, come here.”

Keran hurried over.

“Take her to a darkened room. Remove everything from the room that is not necessary. Do not allow her to leave the room for a day.”

Keran helped Helena to her feet, but she shook his hand off her arm.

“I know the way, Keran,” she said.

“The world will still be there tomorrow,” Borbonil said. “You must get used to seeing by degrees. That is the way of things.”

He turned and began to walk towards the door and the street.

“Wait!” Helena tried to see through her fingers, but it was evident from her expression that she could make out very little. Borbonil paused and half turned back towards them. “Why did you do this? Why really?”

The Faer Karani stood for a moment or two, as though searching for words, and then he shrugged, a bizarre, human gesture.

“I think,” he said slowly, “that I am beginning to understand.”