Wolf's Blood (7 page)

“Yes. Those islands became the new refuge for those with magical abilities,” Bryessidan said, not attempting to hide the bitterness in his tone, “as once this kingdom was.”

Amelo Soapwort, wisely, did not comment.

Bryessidan felt his temper kindling at memories of old wrongs, and spoke aloud, although whether to calm his anger or to kindle it further, even he did not know for certain.

“Ironic if those who ruled the Nexus Islands have been overthrown as once my father was. Do you think they let in too many misfits? That is how my father was betrayed, or so many say. Once the secret of the gates was rediscovered, and once the old maps of the Nexus Islands had been deciphered, then my father had a back door into any land. He used those doors well, slipping in spies and those less than satisfied with their current rulers. Amazing how a few within can do as much damage as many without. Amazing that my father did not realize that the same trick could be played on him.”

Amelo said nothing, perhaps secure in the devotion of his long service both before and after the previous king’s fall, perhaps wise enough to know the value of silence.

“The gates,” Bryessidan said, “are too useful once one knows of them.”

“Too useful, my king?”

“Too useful to destroy,” Bryessidan said. “Even the small hint of their power tasted by those who would overthrow my father was too much. A few words, a little blood, marks upon the stone, and suddenly one is a moonspan’s travel distant—or across a mountain range that is otherwise impassible—or across a stormy sea. My father’s ambitions were local, for he knew he needed his borders secured, but had he succeeded here, he could have had it all …”

“There is one more thing,” Amelo said with quiet firmness. “One more thing than blood and words and the gate itself. Someone with magical power must work the spells. The gates are not like a broken-down old horse, able to be ridden by any. Nor can they be compared to a fine sailing ship, for those can be sailed by any who study the craft. The gates take that study, yes, but one might study all his life and never learn to work the gates unless the natural ability to work spells is there.”

Bryessidan nodded. “And that is why we must deal with these Nexus Islands as if they are a kingdom of their own. To spare our homeland a long and bloody war, to spare our people being conquered, my father agreed to negotiate with those who would otherwise conquer him. The Once Dead stood with us knowing they could not win a war when the nations of the world had once again learned to fear the power of magic. They were wiser than that.”

Amelo smiled wryly. “Thank you, my king. You forget one other reason we stood by King Veztressidan. We had reason to be grateful to your father. Enough of us remembered his old kindnesses that we could see the wisdom in making the terms for the Mires’ surrender as favorable as they could be.”

“And from those negotiations you gained a kingdom for yourselves,” Bryessidan grumbled. “And a new profession of sorts: transportation for all those who wished to keep their newly awakened gates alive and working.”

“As you yourself said, my king, the gates are too useful to be destroyed.”

“I know. I know.”

Bryessidan put his head in his hands, and thought about shipments of herbs that if delivered would put wealth in his coffers and if undelivered would be so much slime for the compost bins.

“We must deal with the problem of the herb shipments immediately,” he said, sitting upright again. He turned to the attendant who had stood silent all this time. “Send me the minister of the navies and find someone who knows the state of the roads. I want someone skilled in herb lore as well. Perhaps something can be done to preserve these specimens with some of their potency intact.”

“I can assist with that last, my king,” Amelo said.

“Return then to counsel me,” Bryessidan said, “but first alert your associates among the Once Dead here in the Mires as to what you saw.”

Amelo rose smoothly. “I agree, my lord. We cannot forget that the gates work both ways. Right now we cannot enter their land, but they can enter ours—and those of our friends.”

“Or of our enemies,” Bryessidan said, thinking of old betrayals. “Make haste.”

“SO WE’RE WONDERING,” Derian said to the aridisdu Harjeedian as he concluded his long account, “if you could possibly convince Urgana to work with us as a researcher.”

“So that Firekeeper may follow this mad impulse to go chasing after the source of an illness that first appeared over a century ago,” Harjeedian said.

The aridisdu had listened to Derian’s report in flattering silence, his dark eyes over his almost impossibly high cheekbones as watchful and impassive as those of one of the snakes from his own Serpent Temple.

Harjeedian no longer habitually tended one of those snakes, as he had on the voyage where Derian had first come to know him. That was considered unnecessary, for the presence of the Wise Beasts, the yarimaimalom, made the divining of omens that was part of an aridisdu’s role within the complicated theology of the Liglimom more direct—if, as some theologians had argued, more suspect.

However, physically, Harjeedian was little changed from the man Derian had first met over two years ago. He still wore his straight, shining black hair combed from a center part and cut just above his shoulders. He still wore the emblem of the Serpent Temple embroidered on the loose trousers and shirt that were the national attire of the Liglimom. He was still one of the most arrogantly composed people Derian had ever known—and Derian had known kings and queens and those who were as kings and queens, although their titles differed.

And he might have been my brother-in-law, joined to my ancestry,
Derian thought.
Perhaps Rahniseeta did me a favor when she dumped me in favor of a crown—or maybe the ancestors didn’t want to be obligated to look after Harjeedian. But why lie to myself? Harjeedian may be annoying, but in his way he’s honest and reliable.

“Would you try and convince Urgana to assist us?” Derian pressed.

Harjeedian turned his gaze to where Firekeeper sat perched on a windowsill where she could look out at the several hills that dominated this island—grounds dominated in turn by the looming stone wedges that held the gates.

“I would like to know more about what awakened Firekeeper’s sudden interest in querinalo,” Harjeedian said. “I claim no divine inspiration in my suspicions, but I admit to suspicions that Firekeeper’s impulse is not entirely her own.”

Derian might have hedged, knowing Harjeedian’s strongly negative feelings about the Meddler, but Firekeeper did not hesitate.

“Do you ask if someone put idea in my head?” she said, turning to face them. “I could answer like a human and say, ‘Oh, no, no one
put
the idea in my head.’”

Derian noted the slight emphasis on the word “put” and saw that Harjeedian did as well.

“And I would be human honest, for no one put any idea in my head,” Firekeeper said, speaking with unusual precision. “But I will be wolf honest and tell you what you could smell if you had a nose. No one put the idea in my head, but, yes, someone spoke to me about that idea, and yes, that one is the Meddler, and before you say anything, I tell you this. Blind Seer like this no more than you do—maybe less—but he will run with me and perhaps so keep me from foolishness.”

Harjeedian’s eyes, narrow above those high cheekbones, blinked with slow deliberateness, as a snake might blink.

“Wolf honest,” he repeated. “Direct. Clear. Forthright. What a low opinion you have of humanity, Firekeeper, but still you wish our help.”

“I have no low opinion of humanity,” Firekeeper snorted. “Only of human words and how they is used to tell not the truth. Now, much of what Derian has telled you is what the Meddler has speaked …”

“Spoken,” Derian said.

“With me about querinalo. Will you help?”

Harjeedian frowned thoughtfully. “All the disdum’s teachings warn against getting trapped in the Meddler’s games. You remember the stories I have told you?”

“And the ones Plik telled, too,” Firekeeper said. “Must we defy good sense because it comes from the Meddler? When he gave you help you needed, you did not refuse.”

“True,” Harjeedian said, “and I have prayed over my choices since then. Had we not accepted the Meddler’s help, then perhaps we would not be here and in this situation.”

“Had we not accepted the Meddler’s help,” Firekeeper said, “some would be dead, and I would be once.”

“I didn’t say the problem was without complication,” Harjeedian said, “nor that I am not glad that you are alive when otherwise you might be dead. I am only stating that our current complexities are a direct result of accepting the Meddler’s help—for if you had died, I doubt we would have continued our search for the twins beyond that point, or if we had done so that we Would have succeeded as we did.”

Firekeeper puffed air out through her nose, but otherwise did not comment.

Harjeedian went on. “Moreover, when one considers that the entire problem of the twins seems to have been of the Meddler’s origination …”

Firekeeper waved a hand through the air, brushing away Harjeedian’s words as she might flies.

“And if I had died in a fire when my human parent did, then I would not be here. Now is what matters, not how we get to now.”

“I cannot wholly agree,” Harjeedian said, “but I will concede that querinalo is something that influences how we act in the here and now. You say you wish to find out where it came from so that we might learn how to eliminate it. You give good reasons for why we should wish to eliminate it as well. And you want Urgana’s help in finding where you should search.”

“Yes.”

The word was more a grunt from deep in Firekeeper’s throat.

Harjeedian sighed. “I cannot answer you ‘yes’ or ‘no’ so simply. Derian has faithfully reported what Urgana said, and I, too, share her concern that the illness our local associates have taught us to call ‘querinalo’ is indeed, as my people call it, Divine Retribution. How can I lightly go against Divine Will and seek to remove what they may have sent—or if not sent, permitted to reshape the world? Urgana balks at assisting you. I might be able to convince her otherwise, but I must be certain that I do so in adherence to the will of the Divine Five, not because I wish to demonstrate my secular power over the small group here that looks to me for guidance.”

“Will you pray, then?” Derian asked. “Ask your deities for omens?”

Harjeedian almost grinned. “But those upon whom I rely for omens are Firekeeper’s friends—some might say her kinfolk. I would need to he very careful in a matter so closely related to her will and mine. I am not saying the yarimaimalom would deliberately deceive me. but one of the first lessons taught to either branch of the disdum is to take care when reading omens for oneself. Better to have another do it for you.”

Derian saw Firekeeper tense, and asked quickly, seeking to deflect an argument, “Then you will ask the temple in Gak to divine for you? I am certain you could do this without revealing overmuch of our strange situation.”

Harjeedian shook his head. “For a matter of this importance, where I seek to decide how to act on what can be considered a matter of doctrine. I must consult the central temple in u-Nahal, back in u-Seeheera. Best I consult them in person, but given our situation here—and how small our group is to command so many—I will begin by sending a written account.”

Derian frowned. When their small group had taken command of the Nexus Islands nearly five moonspans before, all had agreed that the best course of action was to keep the very existence of the place a secret. As far as he knew, everyone had kept that promise, but he thought it might be wisest to remind Harjeedian.

“Can you ask your superiors for guidance without giving away exactly why we feel it may be essential to know the source of querinalo? Can you tell them what you must without revealing that we have encountered the Plague afresh? Hard as it is for any of us to recall given it has so reshaped our lives, but most of the New World has no idea that querinalo still exists and still has power to touch those with magical ability.”

“I would do my best,” Harjeedian said. “I still agree that the Nexus Islands and what they contain are a secret better kept by us few. We won’t be able to do so forever. Thus far winter weather has helped us, that and the aid of the yarimaimalom, for they make it impossible for anyone to pass undetected through the lands surrounding the New World gate at the Setting Sun stronghold. How long can we keep the secret?”

“I think,” Firekeeper said, “we can keep for a long time, for no one can go from here without yarimaimalom see, and no one can come to here without the same.”

Derian felt troubled, for Firekeeper was touching on matters he had tried not to consider. Matters of loyalty, to friends, to nations, to family. He put those thoughts from him once again. They were not as pressing as this immediate matter.

“So you must ask your superiors for guidance before you will ask Urgana to assist Firekeeper in her research?” Derian asked.

“I fear that is my best choice,” Harjeedian said. “Unless the deities send other omens, I think consulting my superiors is my only responsible choice.”

“I suppose we can begin other research,” Derian began. He glanced at Firekeeper to see her reaction to Harjeedian’s decision, and found her staring fixedly out the window.

“Someone is coming from the gates,” she said. “Skea, and moving quickly. He goes to your house, Derian.”

“From the gates?” Derian said. “Oh, Horse! Not again!”

“The gates,” Firekeeper repeated, “and he seems very unhappy to me.”

IV

  FIREKEEPER AND BLIND Seer caught up with Skea as he was turning away from thumping on the door of Derian’s little house by the stable.