Master of restless shado.., p.45
Master of Restless Shadows, page 45
part #1 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“You must eat all your porridge and one of those cream-poached eggs. Then I’ll reveal all,” Narsi pronounced in a tone of mock authority.
“Certainly the eggs would do a young man like yourself more good than me,” Father Timoteo protested.
“You have my terms.” Narsi crossed his arms over his chest. “Will you not pay my price to allay Berto’s fears?”
Father Timoteo gave a soft laugh and took one of the eggs. But where another man would have gulped the thing down in a single bite, Father Timoteo ate slowly, almost falteringly, as if Narsi’s request were a genuine challenge for him.
When Narsi had been a child he’d assumed Father Timoteo’s asceticism typical of devout Cadeleonian men, but as he’d grown up he’d encountered many people of great faith, and none but those suffering penance for immense wrongdoing denied themselves and tortured their bodies as extremely as Father Timoteo. Narsi had begun to suspect that something more insidious than mere religious fervor fed the Holy Father’s self-denial—though he’d never been able to imagine what crime Timoteo could have committed that he felt deserved such punishment. The Holy Father had been nothing but tolerant, kind and generous all the years that Narsi had known him. Most anyone who met him thought Father Timoteo was very nearly a saint.
But now Narsi remembered that agonized expression Father Timoteo had worn when he’d spoken of Narsi’s father. Had guilt belied his grief? No—that couldn’t be. Father Timoteo couldn’t have played any part in his own brother’s murder. Narsi felt almost ashamed of himself for even considering the possibility.
Finally the Holy Father swallowed the last of his egg.
“So where was Mistress Delfia?” Father Timoteo asked him and Narsi remembered their conversation.
“You can reassure Berto that she was with her brother,” Narsi said. “The duchess had asked the two of them to sort through the belongings of the guard, Dommian. I happened upon them at their work while I was trying to find my way around the building. It didn’t look like a small task, so I imagine that the two of them were working well past any decent hour for taking a stroll.”
“Berto will be relieved to know as much.” Father Timoteo smiled and then gently patted Narsi’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Happy to oblige,” Narsi responded offhandedly, but it was no less true. He did hope that Berto cheered. Though contemplating Mistress Delfia reminded him of his fast-approaching meeting with her brother. He wished desperately that he knew even a little more of the man’s nature.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything of Master Ariz, would you?” Narsi asked Father Timoteo.
The Holy Father looked surprised by the change of subject.
“I can’t say too much about him. He doesn’t often attend chapel nor does he make too much conversation at the master’s table. I assume he’s a naturally quiet kind of fellow. I’d like to think that perhaps his still waters run deep, though Berto says he’s as dull as dishwater. Why do you ask?”
For an instant Narsi considered telling everything to Father Timoteo. But it struck him as too much of a betrayal of Lord Vediya’s confidences. And he hardly wished to share his secrets with all the acolytes as well.
“I’m going to be looking in on Lord Sparanzo Quemanor while he’s with the sword master, but the last two times I’ve encountered the man I couldn’t find anything to talk with him about.”
“Well”—Father Timoteo lowered his voice—“I can tell you that he and his sister come from the disgraced Plunado family. He would have been a nobleman up until ten years ago, when his entire family was stripped of their rank and possessions because of their cousin’s treachery against Fedeles. Though none of that’s likely to make for a cheery conversation. Perhaps the subject of dance would be one to explore. He’s familiar with a good number of dances, but none of the Haldiim ones, as far as I’ve seen.”
“Yes, that sounds good.” Narsi nodded.
He’d been quite young at the time of the scandal that had destroyed the Plunado family, but he remembered all the rumors of the forbidden magic and vile torture that Fedeles Quemanor had endured at the hands of the family’s heir.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about . . .” Narsi trailed off as he realized how odd it would sound to bring up the subject of spells and thralls out of the blue.
“About?” Father Timoteo prompted, and Narsi decided that if he was going to seem a little odd, it might as well be with Father Timoteo.
“Well, when you alluded to Lord Quemanor’s possession just now I wondered if the spells used against him weren’t the same as those the Labaran witches are rumored to use to enchant men. Thralls, I think they’re called.”
“I don’t believe it could have been,” Timoteo responded. “As far as I could ascertain the Labaran thralls leave no mark upon the flesh. But when Lord Quemanor was possessed, a small symbol was burned into his skin. A tiny brand at the base of his back.”
“Oh?” Narsi tried not to betray his interest. It wouldn’t do for a Haldiim to appear too fascinated by a spell that once enslaved a Cadeleonian nobleman, particularly not in front of a gaggle of young acolytes who served in that nobleman’s chapel. He knew from personal experience how quickly bored young men could generate conspiracies.
“Yes. It’s actually a fascinating subject. Many people don’t realize this, but in the oldest of holy texts there are a number of instructions for binding the wills of men and beasts in a manner much like the Labaran thralls. It’s called a Brand of Obedience. I’ve seen two in my life. The scar left on Lord Quemanor, and the other was burned into the vellum of an ancient scroll. The vellum was said to have been made from the tanned skin of a retainer who served a northern bishop during the Mirogoth invasion. The symbol stood out quite clearly, an eight-pointed star inside a perfect circle.”
Narsi just managed not to crow with glee as Father Timoteo described the symbol that Lady Hylanya had drawn—the very one he needed to know more about. Then it struck him that a holy man as learned as Father Timoteo was exactly the sort of person who would be familiar with such a profane and obscure Cadeleonian symbol.
Warming to his subject, Father Timoteo looked meaningfully at his six acolytes and went on. “The Brand of Obedience originated long, long ago, before Cadeleon was even a unified kingdom. Back then Our Savior traveled the lands, gathering followers to battle the demon kings who threatened to overrun our world. One of those who came to him was in fact a demon himself. To assure the demon’s fidelity, the Savior branded the spell of obedience into the flesh over the demon’s heart.”
“Really?” The question came from the gap-toothed acolyte. “The Savior had a demon among his followers?”
“Oh yes.” Father Timoteo grinned at the boy. “Not that most of the church fathers wish to admit as much these days. In fact the Savior was joined in his battles by a multitude of creatures and people whom we now blithely call heathens and monsters. Giants, Bahiim, witches and even Old Gods like the Summer Doe numbered among his companion warriors.”
“Did he brand them all, then?” another of the acolytes inquired—this boy wore his bangs a little long, probably in an attempt to hide the large red birthmark that hung over his right brow.
“No, he only branded the demon. And according to the oldest accounts he only did so because the demon insisted on it, so as to prove his commitment to the Savior to the other warriors.” Father Timoteo looked thoughtful and then added, “If I recall correctly, this all happened in the north, where the Gavado lands lie today. The Savior and his armies of allies built a stronghold there, then swept down into the south to fight a final battle here where our capital stands.”
“The War of Heaven’s Shard,” the gap-toothed acolyte murmured.
“Yes, indeed.” Father Timoteo gave the boy an approving smile. “The demon who served the Savior was called Meztli. So when you read a holy text recounting the war of Heaven’s Shard and it describes how Meztli stood shielding the Savior with his own burning flesh as fires rained down upon them, remember that heroic act was performed by a demon. The Savior might have died then and there had he been too quick to judge Meztli by his appearance or his heritage.”
Narsi frowned. He vaguely recalled the text of which the Holy Father spoke. He hadn’t found it all that interesting as a boy. He certainly hadn’t realized how radical of a conclusion might have been drawn from it. What he recalled of his readings were seemingly endless lists of those who died or were maimed, blinded or variously wounded in battle after battle. The sheer repetition of it all had rendered even glory and death a dull monotony.
Though now he wondered if he shouldn’t go back and look the texts over again. Particularly if there was any further information to be found about this Brand of Obedience. As Narsi considered it, a distant memory of the story stirred.
“Wasn’t it Meztli who taught the Savior the signs that protected him and his forces when they invoked the . . . ?” Narsi trailed off, unable to recall the name of the miracle that had turned the tide of the battle.
“Yes, yes! He forged the shields that protected Our Savior’s armies,” Father Timoteo supplied. “If it hadn’t been for Meztli, the Savior and most of the greatest warriors would have perished when they invoked the Shroud of Stone. Even so, many died along with the enemy demon king and his army, either because they lost their shields in the battle or because they arrogantly refused to accept the wisdom of a creature whom they considered profane.”
The young acolytes appeared impressed and Father Timoteo beamed at Narsi as if they’d planned this conversation in advance as an ethics lesson for the boys.
“I’m going to make my mask a demon,” a very young boy proclaimed.
“You can’t. This year it’s to be beasts of the Great Hunt,” the youth with the birthmark said, then he looked to Father Timoteo. “Tell him, father.”
“I’m afraid Nillo is correct,” Father Timoteo said. “But you know, there are many quite exotic creatures described in the Book of Redemption. Stallions born of lightning storms, sea serpents as large as ships and birds that burned as bright as shafts of sunshine. Divine creatures and Old Gods, as our Bahiim brethren called them.”
The conversation naturally turned to which beasts sounded fiercest and how best to make masks that captured their visages. If it struck any of the boys as odd that the royal bishop would choose such a theme for the masquerade at a time when he so openly opposed Count Radulf—the champion of those ancient, wild creatures—none of them said so. Though two of them did wonder if they couldn’t wear eagle masks or if they would be mistaken for Saint Trueno if they did. Hawks were safer, they all agreed.
Narsi listened absently, his thoughts still on Father Timoteo’s mention of thralls.
“Is there a way to break the Brand of Obedience, do you recall?” Narsi resisted the urge to whisper. Timoteo appeared a little surprised by the inquiry but then shook his head.
“Absolute obedience until death parts the soul from the flesh,” Father Timoteo replied. “Even the oldest inscriptions describing it say as much.”
Narsi nodded and remembered the notes he’d copied from Dommian’s charm-book. Then another question occurred to him.
“But wouldn’t that mean that Lord Quemanor—” Narsi began.
“Oh. No. Not at all. Lord Quemanor is absolutely free of all traces of the thrall that once possessed him. He is not at all corrupted,” Father Timoteo clarified before Narsi could even complete his question. “The man who enthralled him died and that broke the bond between them.”
“So, a person could be released if the person who enthralled them dies?” Narsi wondered if Dommian had known as much but been too oppressed to even consider doing away with the man who enslaved him or if he’d not realized that his own death hadn’t been required.
“Yes. The death of either party ends their connection. But why do you ask?”
“Professional curiosity.” Narsi shrugged. “Always thinking of conditions in terms of chronic or curable, even in the realms of the spirit.”
Father Timoteo laughed and nodded. “You truly were born to be a physician.”
“Speaking of my calling, I’d best move along if I’m to keep my appointment with Master Ariz. Thank you so much for the meal and good company.” Narsi stood, and several of the acolytes as well as Father Timoteo wished him well as he took his leave of them.
Narsi strolled across the garden paths, basking in the warmth of the morning sun and absently noting the flocks of doves wheeling through the blue sky. A few red camellias peeked out at him from amidst dark green hedges, and Narsi exchanged morning greetings with several of the gardeners tending the plants’ irrigation. Usto, the sunburned young man Narsi recalled from the previous day, shyly beckoned him over. Narsi gave the man a rinse of coinflower for the scratches a silverthorn had gouged across his forearms.
As they stood together, a party of very well-dressed Cadeleonians came around the hedge of camellias. A flutter of pleasure rose through Narsi when he recognized Lord Vediya sauntering between two resplendently dressed noblewomen. Three handmaids and two armed guards trailed them. One of the women laughed at something Lord Vediya said, while the other hid her flushed cheeks behind a silver lace fan. A moment later two brawny young men—nobles, from the look of their silk clothes—joined the party on their morning stroll.
The entire group wafted past Narsi and Usto without greeting or comment, though Narsi noted the way one of the women drew nearer Lord Vediya, as if she feared that it was only his presence that kept Narsi, or perhaps Usto, from lunging out and groping her. The noblemen following Lord Vediya both lifted their chins and puffed up their chests as they passed. Narsi wondered if they were attempting to intimidate him or just to approximate a little of Usto’s broad musculature. One of the handmaids shook her head and offered the two of them a quick, tired smile. The guards appeared resigned and bored.
Narsi studied the group until they disappeared behind another wall of foliage. Lord Vediya didn’t once glance back his way, and Narsi felt stupid for entertaining the childish fantasy that he might.
He turned his attention back to Usto before his mooning became obvious, only to realize that Usto was still gazing after the handmaid who’d offered the brief smile. His sunburned cheeks flushed even darker red when he noticed Narsi observing him.
“She seems very kind,” Narsi stated.
Usto nodded. When Narsi left him, he was still peering along the pebble path, maybe in hopes of glimpsing the handmaid on her return.
Narsi entered the main house by a servant’s door and made his way toward the fencing room. Compared to the sunny outdoors, the mansion corridors seemed gloomy and the air felt stagnant with the scent of woodsmoke. Diffused splashes of morning light reflected across the silver mirrors lining the hall and threw small halos of illumination across the wooden panels of the walls. Narsi passed a number of nobles and servants as he wound his way through the huge house. The nobles largely ignored him, while he and the majority of the staff exchanged passing nods.
Not bad considering that he only arrived here a few days ago. He felt certain that he stood a good chance of winning a few new friends in the coming months. At the same time he couldn’t help but wonder how soon he could return to Cieloalta’s tiny Haldiim District. He shook his head at himself and his own strange contradiction of wanting to belong to both worlds and at the same time never quite feeling satisfied with his place in either.
As he turned a corner he drew to a halt at the sight before him, and all his self-absorbed thoughts dissipated before his curiosity.
A stream of brilliant light poured through the narrow crack between two doors. A man peered into the illumination, the planes of his face burning to stark white. The rest of his body seemed to melt into the shadows, like some kind of apparition. He appeared fascinated by the view before him and failed to even take note of Narsi for several moments.
Fortunately the delay allowed Narsi to recognize the man and offer a proper bow when the duke did acknowledge him.
“Master Narsi.” For an instant the duke appeared embarrassed to be caught out peeping, but then he straightened and his expression grew curious. “Here to see Master Ariz?”
Narsi had to resist the urge to respond with, No I was hoping to peer at the man through the keyhole, but then I realized that you’d gotten here before me.
“Indeed, Your Grace.” Narsi paused as he assessed how best to manage the awkward situation. Pushing forward seemed like the wisest course. He wasn’t at all certain of the duke’s feeling about him treating his son. He decided to avoid that subject without resorting to lying. “I stitched an injury of his a few days ago and wanted to see how it’s healing.”
“His forearm.” The duke nodded. “He said that you did very good work.”
“I do try,” Narsi responded, just to say something.
They both stood there for another moment. The duke blocked his way into the chamber and seemed unwilling to move. From beyond the doors Narsi picked out the sound of fast footsteps and then the clatter of wooden blades knocking together.
“Good. Well-blocked,” Master Ariz’s flat voice sounded. “But try to keep your left side behind the defensive line of your right arm. Like so.”
The duke’s eyes flicked from Narsi back to the scene he spied between the doors.
Didn’t he trust Master Ariz with his son’s lessons?
Maybe Lord Vediya had apprised the duke of his theory that Master Ariz was an enthralled assassin. Though if that was the case Narsi didn’t know why the duke didn’t simply enter the room and openly observe. His expression didn’t strike Narsi as worried so much as fascinated. It made Narsi want to peer between the doors himself, if only to witness whatever sight so captivated the duke. He didn’t know the duke well enough—and probably never would—to ask, much less lean in next to the duke to see for himself.
