Master of restless shado.., p.69
Master of Restless Shadows Book Two, page 69
part #2 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
“The hill already feels stronger now. Like it’s only sleeping.” Fedeles closed his eyes and pressed his hands into the warm earth. “Little streams of raw magic are still flowing into this place.”
“So, it’s recovering?” Ariz touched a clump of clover. A grasshopper sprang away with a flash of bright green wings.
“Yes. It might take years, but the wounds are mending. It’s growing stronger.” Fedeles smiled at Ariz, and there seemed to be a greater meaning in his gaze. “Its nature hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s growing more beautiful.”
Ariz nodded. Crown Hill was resilient, indomitable, like Fedeles himself.
“It reminds me of you.” Fedeles’s words startled Ariz and then embarrassed him.
He gave a soft laugh and Fedeles frowned.
“I’m serious—” Fedeles began, but Ariz cut him off with a kiss.
“I know. I was laughing because I had the same thought about you,” Ariz admitted.
Fedeles looked somewhat bashful, but all the more alluring for it.
“Is there anything else you’d like to do while we’re here?” Fedeles asked.
Ariz swung his cloak from his shoulders and spread it out over the ground for them to share. “Lie with me and watch the clouds for a while, and then I’ll decide.”
Epilogue
Atreau
Atreau paced beneath a row of cherry trees, listening to the voices drifting from the open windows of the Grunito townhouse. He’d promised himself that he was done with a life of spying. Even so, he edged up onto the stones of a raised flower bed to steal a glimpse of the people gathered inside.
Statuesque and clothed in gold, Lady Grunito still presented as imposing a figure as Atreau remembered from his youth—though now he noticed how much more silver colored her once jet-black hair and the lines of concern carved into her stern face. When she turned her gaze to study Narsi, both sorrow and tenderness shook the hard line of her mouth.
Narsi stood casually and spoke in subdued tones, appearing unconcerned. It was a sharp contrast from the night before, when he’d been shaking from nerves as he gathered the letters and documents that Timoteo had passed along to him. Now the truth of his birth and his birthright lay neatly spread out on Lady Grunito’s onyx-inlaid desk.
Nestor Grunito picked up a document, peered at it through his spectacles, and then smiled.
“Isandro had a beautiful signature,” he commented to his mother. “Did he draw at all?”
Lady Grunito glanced to him and nodded. When she returned her attention to Narsi, Atreau thought that her stern expression had softened even more.
“It will not be an easy thing, you understand?” Lady Grunito asked.
“When have the Earls of Anacleto ever feared a challenge?” Nestor responded, but he wasn’t the one Lady Grunito addressed.
Narsi straightened and lifted his chin a little. Even dressed in the simple clothes of a master physician, he looked striking and resolute. With the warm afternoon light illuminating the angles of his face, his resemblance to that radiant stained-glass portrait of his father was unmistakable.
“I know it can’t be done easily, but I’m not afraid to try,” Narsi replied.
Lady Grunito sighed and wiped her hand across her eyes.
“Atreau!” The shout drowned out whatever response Lady Grunito offered Narsi and pulled Atreau’s attention across the grounds to Sabella. He hopped down from the flower bed and strode out to meet her before anyone in the study could chance to notice him eavesdropping.
“Atreau?” Sabella called once more but then caught sight of him and waved.
She wore a mix of red Haldiim vestments and Cadeleonian riding leathers that accentuated her lean arms and toned legs. She also appeared to be sober—all of which was a marked improvement from when they’d first departed Cieloalta. Then, she’d sported numerous superficial injuries from her battles against mordwolves and guardsmen. In addition, Suelita’s decision to take up with Bahiim Esfir had left Sabella surly and intent upon moving to Anacleto, where she felt she might be more appreciated. She had not been wrong and was currently swept up in a romance with an vivacious Haldiim woman her own age.
Sabella thrust a letter out to him.
“News from Jacinto, I think,” she said.
“What courier knew to find me here?” Atreau frowned—suspicion still came to him as a habit—then he remembered Sabella’s new lady love and grinned. “Or am I reaping the rewards of you winning the heart of a postmistress?”
Sabella offered him a self-satisfied smile in response. Atreau slid the bulging letter into his coat pocket. He craned his head, hoping to glimpse Narsi, Nestor or Lady Grunito in the study. Lady Grunito and Nestor had already acknowledged Narsi as a member of the Grunito family. Timoteo’s and Elezar’s support of him had ensured that. The real concern now was whether Lady Grunito would publicly recognize Narsi as Isandro’s heir. Would Nestor actually step down in favor of him? If he did, then what?
A Haldiim man inheriting a Cadeleonian title would doubtless face opposition and criticism from all sides. Narsi was charismatic and accomplished, but his allies in Anacleto were not yet numerous. Few people even knew of him beyond the Grunito family, his reticent aunt, and a few proud mentors.
Atreau watched a finch alight in the branches of the cherry tree. Out of habit he glanced sidelong to see if there wasn’t a cat stalking it from the shadows. A couple of fat puppies rolled over each other, unaware of anything else around them.
Atreau sighed and kicked at the ground.
What Narsi needed, he thought, was an agent working on his behalf to build his reputation and remove his enemies. Atreau stopped himself before his mind ran further along those lines.
He’d come to Anacleto for a fresh start. He did not want to sink back into a mire of manipulation, lies and murder. And even if he tried to endure it for Narsi’s sake, he didn’t possess the vast web of connections here that he had called upon in Cieloalta. Nor could he effortlessly recreate or move among a collection of agents, informants, flunkies and pawns. Ever since Fedeles exposed him as an agent serving the Cadeleonian king, his name had become synonymous with intrigue. Thankfully, the revelation saved him from charges of treason—and the noose—but it had also ended his career as a spy. Even the broadsheets in Anacleto had publicized various accounts of his misdeeds and adventures.
On the bright side, his infamy ignited a surge in sales of his memoirs. Royalties from his Haldiim publisher already made up for the funds he’d invested in Spider’s and Inissa’s Salt Island hostel. He briefly wondered if he could convince Inissa to provide a few illustrations for the next edition.
Sabella kicked Atreau’s foot, interrupting his brooding.
“Come on, open it and share,” Sabella told him. “Let’s hear what Ambassador Jacinto has to say about Yuan.”
Atreau had nearly forgotten the letter in his concern for Narsi’s political situation.
He retrieved Jacinto’s letter and, using his belt knife, slit open the silk-stitched envelope. Pages of Jacinto’s excited script burst from the fabric confines. Green, red and violet ink blossomed over pastel paper, and a heady perfume wafted up.
Atreau began reading aloud to Sabella, and both of them laughed at Jacinto’s excited tales of his discoveries and exploits in Yuan. He’d reunited with the Yuanese dignitaries who’d fled Cadeleon earlier. The group of them seemed to have grown closer for their experiences. Reading through the amusing descriptions of opulent ceremonies, bawdy festivals and quiet evenings “drinking smoke” in the company of musicians, Atreau noted growing insight and compassion in Jacinto’s writing. By the end of the letter, Atreau wasn’t entirely surprised to learn that Jacinto had taken part in an arduous pilgrimage to entreat the heavens for plentiful rain. Though, this being Jacinto, of course the pilgrimage culminated in a two-day orgy honoring all six Yuanese deities of love and fertility.
Atreau laughed and Sabella snorted.
“I’m glad he’s all right,” Sabella said.
Atreau agreed. He’d felt guilty for the part he played in having Jacinto appointed as ambassador and essentially exiling him to Yuan. But he’d known that so long as one of Sevanyo’s sons remained in Cadeleon, there would be nobles and clergymen using him to justify rebellions against Fedeles. Neither Oasia nor Lliro would allow such a threat to persist. So this had been the compromise that spared Jacinto’s life.
His own withdrawal to Anacleto hadn’t been that much different. The less Oasia saw of him, the safer he was. He hadn’t brokered a princely salary for himself. But he’d been spared the misery of a sea voyage.
City bells rang out the changing hour and Sabella strode off to tutor Nestor’s three rambunctious children in dance and swordplay. The puppies that had been frolicking on the lawn trotted alongside her. Atreau briefly marveled at how oddly wholesome the scene appeared. A few months ago, blood had dripped from her sword as she slit men’s throats. Now she paused to rub a fat puppy’s belly and smiled warmly at the footman who greeted her in passing.
Could people leave the paths of violence and villainy so simply—resolve themselves one day and then, step by step, just walk away from it?
Be true to yourself and your destiny will be of your own making.
That was what his mother had said, but back then he’d felt uneasy about who he truly was: a hopeless boy at the mercy of anyone more powerful. Only now did he realize how absurd he’d been, abandoning his aspirations, placing himself in the service of dukes, princes and kings, all while telling himself that he was escaping the fate of being used. Cut free of influence and power, he found his prospects unlimited. He was free to choose his own course now, if only he maintained the determination to do so.
He thought he might write something this evening. Perhaps a few more pages of his latest memoir. Maybe a little poem to amuse Narsi.
As he considered, he gazed across the grounds, taking in two old apple trees. Their flowers had already fallen. What fruit they would bear had yet to be seen. Then he remembered he’d first met Narsi beneath those trees. Traded his secrets and wealth for a single chaste kiss. What a foolish young man he’d been, and yet . . . how happy he felt returning to that most foolish of beginnings and seeing it through.
As if conjured by his memory, Narsi came striding from between the apple trees. He caught sight of Atreau and smiled. They both started toward each other and met beside a display of mounding red roses.
“Were you waiting for me?” Narsi asked.
“Yes, for all my life,” Atreau replied glibly.
Narsi rolled his eyes and laughed.
“After so long a vigil, you must be famished.” Narsi took his arm. “Come, I’ll treat you to a proper Haldiim lunch across the Ammej Bridge.”
Atreau walked alongside him. If they were taking lunch outside the Grunito house, then Atreau guessed Narsi wanted to talk with him in private. He waited until they’d passed through the gates of the townhouse and joined the bustle of the open streets.
“Lady Grunito came to a decision concerning the matter?” Atreau asked.
“She did.” Narsi’s smile faded, but only a little. “On the new year, she and Nestor will formally acknowledge me as Isandro’s son. My mother will be recorded as his legal wife.”
“Good on them.” Atreau had suspected that they would do right by Narsi. The Grunito family could seem reckless and rude, but when it came to championing justice—even when it challenged their interests—they rose to the occasion.
“Hmm,” Narsi murmured. Concern creased his brows. Atreau guessed he was already thinking about the disputes ahead of him.
They strolled along the walkway, passing groups of fruit vendors who called out the names of succulent berries in Cadeleonian, Haldiim, Labaran and Mirogothic. Their voices rose and fell among the shouts of riders and news sellers, like jangling melodies. A little farther along they passed two women in vivid red dresses. One waved a fan of brilliant Yuanese feathers at Atreau. The other attempted to entice Narsi with strings of fine silver beads from Usane.
They turned down a quiet lane where booksellers sheltered amidst print shops. The smell of ink drifted in the air, but beyond it, Atreau could pick out the distinct perfume of adhil bread frying in a distant eatery.
“There are so many changes that I want to make,” Narsi said. “Laws ensuring equality between Haldiim and Cadeleonians. Abolishing the practice of shunning people as heram. Legal rights and protections for adari lovers. Public access to secular education. Not to mention a unified system for waste that isn’t just dumping chamber pots in the river.”
“You’ll build us a perfect world if all the bigots and idiots would just let you institute a citywide plumbing code,” Atreau commented. They’d discussed so many of these matters on the journey from Cieloalta that Atreau couldn’t help but enjoy teasing him. Not because he dismissed Narsi’s plans, but because his high-minded idealism always included the entirely mundane concerns that eluded many governing lords. Narsi could talk about maintaining human dignity and installing sewer pipes with the same awareness of how each impacted people’s lives.
“You’ll thank me the next time we’re crawling through some tunnel and feeling assured about the clearances and the makeup of the condensation dripping down on us,” Narsi responded.
“No doubt I will.” Atreau paused to look through the open door of a book shop and note that several copies of his own books stood proudly displayed and asking a very nice price. He ducked back out of the shop just as Narsi turned around, noticing his absence.
“Oh, remind me to find a word that rhymes with toilet for a poem I’m thinking of writing tonight,” Atreau said.
“Boil it. Soil it,” Narsi provided, but a little absently. He was clearly still troubled by the prospect of becoming the heir to an earldom.
Atreau walked beside him, giving him time to decide on what he wanted to say. They left the printshops behind and strolled by bakeries and candy shops.
“I’m going to face quite a bit of opposition,” Narsi said. “Nestor and I discussed it for a good while.” He dropped his gaze from Atreau as if his polished boots had suddenly become fascinating.
“I can’t hope to win everyone over by just arguing them down,” Narsi said.
Atreau started to reassure him about his superior ability to argue, but then an uneasiness washed through him. Narsi clearly wanted to ask something of him, but was nervous.
“I think I may need your help,” Narsi said, and he raised his head, his expression hopeful and worried at once.
Atreau’s stomach clenched. He wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly where his greatest value lay for a man with magnificent designs for the world.
“I’d pay you—” Narsi began, but Atreau was afraid to hear him out—afraid that he’d agree regardless of what it would do to him.
“Narsi, I . . . I don’t think I can.” Atreau forced the words out. “I love you, but I just don’t have it in me anymore—”
“You can’t write?” Narsi stopped and studied Atreau with alarm. “Then what are all those pages that I’ve already read? Why would you need to find rhymes for the word toilet?”
Atreau stared back at Narsi. For a moment both of them stood in mutual confusion.
“What are you asking me?”
“I want to be your patron,” Narsi said. “What did you think I was asking you to do?
“You want to be my patron?” Atreau repeated as the full implication sank in. “You’re offering to support my writing?”
“Yes.” Narsi looked shy. “I’ve thought a great deal about what you said to me at the Candioro Theater. That stories—even pure flights of fancy—can win people’s hearts and change their minds. A book, a play, even a poem, and especially a song can bring people together. Make them laugh or cry. At the same time, they can let us see matters from each other’s points of view. That’s exactly what we need. And your writing . . . I love it so much, you know.”
Effervescent happiness bubbled through Atreau. He’d wanted this all his life. Not merely the money, but someone who genuinely believed in the worth of his work. Someone who valued those stories he shared with them.
How stupid to think that Narsi would want him for a spy. It wouldn’t even occur to him to resort to blackmail and backstabbing to win an argument. No, Narsi would aim for a far greater victory. Narsi would strive to truly change his opponents’ minds. If pure reason wouldn’t move them, then he’d bring his arguments to bear through song, art and literature. He’d make his ideals light up stages and fill bookshelves.
“But if you don’t want to . . .” Narsi trailed off, at a loss after Atreau’s apparent refusal.
“I most definitely, absolutely and wholeheartedly accept your patronage!” Atreau couldn’t keep from beaming.
Narsi raised his brows in question.
“I panicked for a moment there,” Atreau admitted.
Narsi relaxed and gave a soft laugh. “Why on earth would you panic over a patronage?”
“Because I’m an ass sometimes.” Atreau threw his arm around Narsi’s shoulder and pulled him close. He lowered his voice. “But rest assured, from here on out I’ll be your ass.”
Glossary of People, Places & Terms
A
Alizadeh—Bahiim mystic, uncle (by marriage) to Kiram.
Amabilo—Sacrist serving the Shard of Heaven, previously one of Timoteo Grunito’s chapel teachers.
Anacleto—Port city in the south of Cadeleon. Center of Haldiim culture and power.
Ariz Plunado—Stripped of nobility along with the entire Plunado family, has since made his living as a sword and dance instructor. Served the Quemanor household but was sent to Clara Odalis after being exposed as one of Hierro Fueres’s enthralled assassins. Now does what he can to pass information on to Fedeles, Atreau and Narsi.
