The name of all things, p.17
The Name of All Things, page 17
part #2 of A Chorus of Dragons Series
“A week?” Ninavis gaped. “Every dead body here will be risen as hell spawn in a week!”
“I’m aware.”
“But what can we—”
“There are eight locations the army may use, based on proximity to Mereina,” Janel explained. “The gate they open will be picked at random from those locales, to ensure any enemy forces cannot predict where the army will arrive and lie in ambush. If we plan to meet the army and make sure they understand what’s happened here, we’ll need to split up. Nine groups. Eight of those will travel to the possible gate sites and meet the approaching army before they arrive in Mereina.”
“What happens to the ninth group?” someone asked.
Janel looked at Ninavis. “Not all of us can travel quickly. There are children here, the injured, the ill, and the elderly. Those will need to shelter at a secure location. By tonight, this town won’t be safe for any living being. Since this isn’t my banner, I direct the question back to you: Where can we take refuge?”
The crowd murmured and looked at each other. “The old mill—”
“Oh sure, that will fit two of us, and rotted through besides.”
“What about Coldwater? Ain’t no one there now.”
“Ain’t no Coldwater there now either.”
“What? What happened—?”
“Dedreugh happened.”
Ninavis sighed. “I have a place.”
Janel hadn’t looked at anyone else. She must have suspected Ninavis knew a location but gave the woman a chance to offer it herself.
Once Ninavis had spoken, it seemed to free up the others. Jem Nakijan nodded, as did Tanner, Vidan, and Gan Not-Actually-the-Miller’s-Daughter-After-All.
“Aye,” Dango agreed. “It’s big enough to fit us all too.”
“Good.” Janel pointed to the crowd. “Now I want our eight strongest riders and every available horse. Volunteers, step up.”
While Janel and the others fretted over team distributions, Brother Qown focused his attention on Baron Tamin. He’d had little success in pulling the smoke from Tamin’s lungs, but removing the baron from the smoke’s borders had helped. The blind panic behind his eyes haunted Brother Qown most—the look of a man awake and conscious, feeling every desperate failed pull from his lungs.
“That glyph thing ain’t working?” Dorna knelt next to Tamin and checked his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Tamin still choked, although never quite to death.
“It makes the air around his head clean, but I don’t think it’s doing anything about what’s already in his lungs. New air can’t get inside.” Brother Qown shook his head. “This glyph … I’ve never seen anything like it, Dorna.”
The old woman frowned. “What are you on about? You’re the one who was using it. I just copied what I saw you doing.”
“But it shouldn’t have worked! The only reason—” He caught himself. “I’ll explain later. I have to figure out how I’m going to clean his lungs.”
Dorna stared at him as if he were missing something very obvious.
Brother Qown glanced up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
She leaned in. “Ain’t you supposed to be proper educated? Got your shiny Blue House magic license and all that?”
“I never told you—” Brother Qown lowered his voice to a whisper. “I never told you I owned a Physickers Guild license.” He didn’t talk about such things while in Jorat. The local beliefs didn’t mesh well with the knowledge he held formal training and licensed permission to practice magic. The Joratese only put up with the Gatekeepers because the Quuros military and their economic stability demanded it. Everyone ignored a little heathen magic if it meant they could cross the realm to see their favorite knights perform on a regular basis.
“Ah, well. Heard the old count talking about you people before he passed on. You have book training. That’s my point.”
“I don’t need your mockery right now, Dorna—”
She visibly rolled her eyes and indicated Tamin. “So answer me this, priest: Does like not call to like? You and your fancy education learned that much, didn’t you?”
“What are you—?” Brother Qown stopped.
He stared at her, dumbfounded, not understanding her meaning for a smattering of long, pregnant seconds. He couldn’t do anything about the witch-smoke in the baron’s lungs. However, yes, if he tied the cursed fumes to something close enough to their basic nature—say, normal non-magical smoke—he could encourage a sympathetic link. Then what happened to one, happened to the other. Brother Qown scuttled to his pack and began running his hands through his pockets. “A candle,” he muttered. “I need a candle.”
“Mmm-hmm.” Dorna held out a small beeswax candle, then snatched it back as he reached for it. “Not here,” she said. “Are you daft, colt? This ain’t something we should share with the whole town and any who might feel like watching. Best bring him behind the farrier’s banners.”
Brother Qown felt blood flow to his face, but he couldn’t deny her logic. If the locals saw him using magic on Baron Tamin, they wouldn’t stop to clarify he was a priest.
They would just reach for the clubs and the knives.
On the heels of that, he realized Dorna somehow understood the rules of sympathetic magic, but this wasn’t the time to challenge her on that.
“You take the head.” Dorna picked up the baron’s feet.
Brother Qown picked up Tamin by the shoulders. Together, they made an awkward shambling trio as they ducked behind several large banners concealing a patio complete with large sturdy forge and work area.
Of course, he thought. The horses wouldn’t want to go downstairs into the building if they didn’t have to, even with a ramp.
Everyone else seemed too distracted by Janel’s instructions to pay them much attention. Brother Qown hoped they’d managed to bring Tamin over to the forge without anyone noticing.
He grabbed a cloth and opened the door to the brick forge itself. They didn’t shoe horses often in this part of Quur. He assumed they just used the forge for spot repairs on tournament armor and the like. The banked fire was enough to light the small wooden taper, which Brother Qown used in turn to light Dorna’s candle.
The candle was poorly made and smoky. Normal smoke, thick and gray. Perfect.
He sat down cross-legged on the straw-strewn brick patio floor, with the candle in one hand. He made sure he could see the smoke spiraling out from its small orange flame and Tamin’s hacking, coughing body. Brother Qown breathed deeply and tried to enter Illumination.
It wasn’t easy. He’d seen too much horror. What he’d witnessed flashed through his mind like haunting ghosts. He finally calmed himself enough to see, although he didn’t use normal sight at all.
A dark, twisting blue mass spiraled inside Tamin, warring against the golden aura flashing over his body. Each light wave fought back the twisting blue mass; when the golden light retreated, the darkness returned.
The blue energy was slick with malice. Brother Qown forced his conscious will against it and found it responded like a living being. It twisted away from him, slid away from his grasp.
Smoke, Brother Qown thought. You’re nothing but smoke.
Sweat ran paths through the dust and ash on his forehead, but he refused to relent, refused to stop. His win happened so suddenly he reeled as if the ground shifted under his feet.
Tamin’s coughing changed from the timbre of a man choking on a bone to a man choking up phlegm after a long illness. Then he rolled to one side and vomited. Smoke escaped from his nose, from his mouth.
Normal smoke.
The baron fell back, gasping. He closed his eyes and drew in deep, shuddering breaths. His face took on a more regular color too.
Dorna slapped Brother Qown on the shoulder. “Nicely done, foal.”
Brother Qown rocked back on his heels and looked up toward Dorna. “How long have you known about me?”
The old woman shrugged and looked at her fingernails. “You think I wouldn’t notice when a guard who’s had his skull bashed in don’t die? I’m old; I ain’t blind.” She lifted a metal hoof-pick from a workbench, examined the tip, and then casually put it in a pocket. “Nobody’s explained what being Blood of Joras means to you, have they?”
“I need—” Tamin’s rough voice only faintly resembled speech.
“What you need is a good swift kick to your ass,” Dorna said. She reached down and grabbed the noble by his collar, dragging him behind her. Normally, this would have been a pointless exercise, but Tamin’s strength was gone. He shuffled after her, almost on his knees but managing at last to stand. He shouted out something incoherent at the end as he tumbled out onto the street.
Brother Qown followed, not sure if he wanted to see what would happen next.
“My count!” Dorna shouted.
Janel looked over. As soon as she saw Tamin, she broke away from the townsfolk and joined Dorna and Brother Qown.
“You cured him.”
Brother Qown couldn’t tell if the news made her happy. Perhaps she didn’t know herself.
“He ain’t gonna die from the smoke, anyway. Plenty still wrong with him.”
“Janel—” Tamin gasped.
The count’s jaw tightened. She stared at Tamin with flared nostrils. Slowly, she tucked her fingers into fists at her sides. “Who was the woman, Tamin? The warden’s nurse. The foreigner.”
“I didn’t—” His voice sounded granite rough. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know … what she would … what she’d do.”
“I didn’t ask you if you knew what she’d do. I asked you who she is.”
A crowd began to gather. Ninavis and Kalazan held back the others, explaining the need for patience. Janel ignored them all.
“She was…” Tamin licked his lips. “She was a slave. A Doltari slave. Senera. Her name was Senera.”
Janel’s frown tightened. “She commanded those soldiers. Slaves don’t command soldiers.”4
“Relos said … said she was a slave. He brought her—” Tamin winced. “Water?”
Janel bent down next to Tamin while Brother Qown reached for his waterskin. “Who is Relos Var? Tell me about him.”
Brother Qown handed Tamin the waterskin. The baron drank in desperate gulps. Evidently, he’d needed the water, because he sounded much better after. “What have I done?”
“Too much and not enough. But right now, I need your focus, Tamin. Who is Relos Var?”
Tamin struggled to sit, while Brother Qown supported him. “A teacher. My father hired him to—” He hesitated.
“To what?”
Tamin’s eyes shone glassy bright. He took a deep breath. “To cure me of being a witch.”
Someone in the crowd gasped. Another person cursed. Dorna turned around, hands on hips, and faced the crowd. “Be quiet, you lot. You let the man speak or you’ll be answering to me, understand?”
Janel cocked her head, narrowed her eyes. “Witchcraft isn’t something one cures like red fever or pox.”
“I didn’t want to be a witch,” Tamin said, “but I couldn’t … I couldn’t help it. It’s what I am.” He tilted his head up to stare at Janel’s face. “You know what it’s like.”
Janel scowled, glanced skyward as if addressing her gods, then refocused her attention on her childhood friend. “I’m quite sure I don’t. Tell me, then. Tell me how you can be a witch against your will.”
“By being cursed. I’ve always been cursed,” Tamin said, “since I was a child. I would cure animals, cure cuts and bruises. I didn’t realize I was doing anything wrong. Not at first. Then I—” He scowled. “A hunting accident injured my father. I loved my father, so I … I saved him.”
“You poor man,” Brother Qown murmured. “If you’d been born anywhere else, such a gift would have won you a scholarship to the Academy and a sponsorship by the Guild of Physickers. You’re not a witch. You’re a sorcerer.”
Tamin gave the priest a confused, sick look. “I can do magic. That’s witchcraft.”
“I take it,” Janel said, sounding very less than pleased with the entire conversation, “your father didn’t tolerate your gift?”
“He—” Tamin’s jaw tightened. He looked away. “No, he didn’t.”
“Strange, then, for you to be so friendly with the man your father hired as punishment.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. Relos Var is a great man. He showed me I didn’t have to be ashamed. I didn’t have to hide what I am.” His voice dropped, and his eyes flickered toward the fairgrounds. “And when my father—” He didn’t finish.
“What happened to your father?”
Tamin closed his eyes.
“Oh, I think I know, right enough,” Dorna volunteered. “His father hated witchcraft. And Tamin here was learning to use his ‘witch’ abilities right under his father’s nose. Just a matter of time ’fore the old man caught him at it, right?”
Janel’s expression had seemed grim before, but as Dorna spoke, her whole face froze into something harder than stone. “What did you do, Tamin?”
“It wasn’t my fault.”
“You’re the Baron of Barsine. Everything that happens in your banner is, by definition, your fault.”5
He flinched at the anger in her voice. “Relos Var said witches cursed me. You should know what it’s like. You’ve been cursed too.”
Janel’s nostrils flared. “Who told you that?”
“Relos Var. He’s right, isn’t he? You’re cursed.”
“Not by witches.”
“It’s the same thing.”
Brother Qown tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders. “No, it isn’t,” he protested, but he didn’t think Tamin was paying any attention.
“Did you kill your father, Tamin?”
The man cast his gaze around him, but the crowd had surrounded them. Everyone from town listened, watching, waiting on his answer.
“I didn’t kill him,” Tamin said, “but I … I removed my healing. Took it all back. He’d have died the first time, so the second time … he did.”
Brother Qown blinked. “That’s not how it works.” He turned to the count and whispered, “That’s not how healing works. You can’t do that.”
Janel nodded to him to indicate she’d heard and put up a hand for Brother Qown to be quiet. Then she continued talking to Tamin. “Was it your idea, or Relos Var’s, to execute the castle steward for your father’s death?”
“It was…” Tamin’s voice trailed off as something haunted and dark entered his eyes. He looked like a man waking up from a nightmare.
A little girl’s voice broke the silence as she set a small basket on the ground next to Tamin. “Mare Xala made you steamed buns for dinner.” The tiny girl was maybe six years old, with dark red skin and white fingertips. She sniffled and wiped her nose with her hand before turning back to an older woman. “Did I say that right?”
The old woman nodded. “You did, foal.” She tossed a green wool bundle at Tamin’s feet. “You’ll need a cloak too, so’s to keep you warm.”
Dorna straightened and put her arm on Janel’s.
The count’s eyes widened.
Brother Qown felt the crowd’s mood shift, but he didn’t understand its cause or meaning. Tamin looked puzzled before his expression changed to panic.
“No.” Tamin shook his head. “No, I don’t need your charity—”
“You will take what we give you,” Kalazan said with the softest voice. He pulled a dagger and sheath from his belt and set them down by Tamin’s feet. “Here’s a blade to keep you safe.”
“I have a pair of saddlebags for you,” Dango offered. “It’s a long road.”
Brother Qown tugged on Dorna’s sleeve. “I don’t understand. He just admitted he killed his own father and framed Kalazan’s father for it. Why are they giving him presents?”
Dorna crossed her arms as she watched the townspeople hunt for trinkets: a sack, rope, dried apples.
“They ain’t presents, exactly—” She scowled, having trouble finding the words in Guarem. She gestured to the crowd. “More like, uh, ‘mustering out’ pay.”6
“What? I don’t understand.”
The crowd bustled. The gifts were impromptu, pulled from supplies they’d grabbed while running from the smoke. Brother Qown didn’t think they could afford to do without them. Yet they did, but without any warmth. They gave the baron their gifts with all the malice of offered poison, each present a dagger’s stroke.
Tamin began crying.
Tears marked streaks down his face as he stood. “Please, Janel. Please don’t let them do this—”
“Don’t let them do this?” Janel’s expression was incredulous. “This is their right.”
Old anger flared hot in his eyes. “You hypocrite! The only reason you’re here right now is to avoid your own Censure! How dare you chide me for not wanting to give up my birthright when you’re running from the same fate!”
Janel’s breath caught. For a moment, Brother Qown thought she might hit Tamin, but she clenched her fists instead. “I’m not running from justice. I’m running from a bastard who thought he could buy Tolamer Canton and bribe its people—my people—to Censure me if I refused to keep his bed. Sir Oreth didn’t even wait for my grandfather’s body to cool before he showed up with his troops, his ultimatums, and his eviction notice,” Janel corrected. “I didn’t let witches, Yoran spies, and demons have free rein to send the souls of my people straight to Hell.”
“I didn’t know I was doing that!” Tamin screamed.
“That only proves you’re too young and too naïve to keep others from manipulating you into doing it for them.”
His laughter was a choked-off sob. “Too young? Janel, I’m a year older than you.”
“And yet so much younger in all the ways that matter.”
Tamin scrambled to his feet, ignoring the blankets and the backpack and the cloth-wrapped food. “So you’ll do nothing, then? You’re a count!”
