I berated myself for wasting my limited strength in the belief that I might change Dassine’s mind about anything. But as he hobbled around behind me to finish his preparations, he used my shoulder for a handhold. Something in his firm grip told me it hadn’t been such a waste after all.
In a few moments he was ready, and he took my robe and motioned me into the circle. I took up my position seated on the cool stone. As he began his chanting, I would have sworn he was grinning at me, though it was impossible to see through the ring of fire.
That night I journeyed back to the university city of Yurevan to study archaeology, the passion I had discovered in my three years of wandering. I lived just outside the university town with Ferrante, a professor and friend who was the only living person who knew the secret of my power. Just at the end of my night’s vision, he introduced me to a friend of his, a fascinating man of far-reaching intellect, deep perceptions, and irresistible charm. His name was Martin, Earl of Gault, a Leiran noble, but far different from the common run of his warlike people.
When I returned from that fragment of time I had lived again, I sat in Dassine’s garden, watching the dawn light paint the faded dyanthia blooms with a brief reminder of summer, and I found myself enveloped in overwhelming and inexplicable sorrow. Such things as Preceptorate politics seemed as remote as the fading stars. Dassine did not have to fetch me to send me to bed as was the usual case, for on that morning I wanted nothing more than to lose myself in unthinking oblivion.
Not long after this-in terms of my remembered life, six or seven months, so perhaps a fortnight of current time- Dassine said he needed to do an errand in the mundane world, and that he would allow me to visit his friend, Lady Seriana, while he was occupied. I was delighted at the prospect of any change, but made the mistake of asking Dassine if the lady was someone I knew. He tried to avoid the question and then to lie about it, but my mind was not so dulled as to mistake the answer.
“Yes, yes. All right,” he grumbled. “She knows of you. Has met you. Yes.” In his infuriating way, he would say no more.
The lady was not what I expected any woman friend of Dassine’s to be. Not just intelligent, but witty and overflowing with life. Beautiful-not solely in the way of those on whom my young man’s eyes had lingered, though she was indeed fair. Every word she spoke was reflected in some variance of her expression-a teasing tilt of her lips, a spark of mischief in her eye, the soft crease of grieving on her brow. I began to think of ways to draw more words from her, just to observe the animation of her face, the richness of a spirit that opened itself to the world in so genuine and generous a fashion.
From the first moment of our conversation, I knew she had been no casual choice, no acquaintance who just happened to be available to converse with me while Dassine went about his business. I knew things about her with a surety I could not apply to myself, and felt as if I were just on the verge of knowing more. But when I reached for memory I found myself once again at the precipice. The universe split apart as had become its disconcerting habit- on one fragment stood the lady, on another the lambina tree, Dassine on another, and between each fragment the terrifying darkness. To my shame, pain and dread overwhelmed me, and I could not even bid the lady farewell.
When next Dassine hauled me from my bed to begin my ordeal once more, I did not beg him to erase what he had returned to me, but instead I asked if he could return something of the woman, Seriana-Seri she called herself. She was so substantial, so real. If I knew something of her place in my history, then I might be able to veer away from the precipice when the terror came on me the next time. My jailer did not scoff or ridicule me as he often did when I pleaded for some variance in his discipline. He only shook his head and said, “Soon, my son. Soon you will know it all.”
CHAPTER 7
Seri
I sat for a long time in my mother’s garden. To interpret what had passed was like trying to analyze a streak of lightning. Already the event itself was fading, leaving only the bright afterimage. I tried to hold onto the moment of his laughter, the sound of his voice, and the look in his eyes as he made the tree bloom for me, and to ignore the disturbing ending of his visit.
Many wild dreams had grown unbidden in the past months. Though I had succeeded in dismissing most of them, one had lingered. Somewhere beyond my disbelief I’d held a secret hope that I might see Karon’s face again. Clearly, that was not to be. His face was Prince D’Natheil’s. Though aged by more than fifteen years in our few months together the previous summer, sculpted by his struggle to fuse body and soul, his appearance had changed no further since he had vanished through the Gate-fire with Dassine four months before.
Yet how could I be disappointed? Dassine had said I was not yet a part of his memory, and such was clearly not the case. He understood my fear of the dark and knew what would ease my sadness. As we walked through the arbor, his manner had been so like Karon’s that I could never have guessed he was not the man I married. He would remember me.
On the previous night I had told Nellia that I was not feeling well, and under no circumstances was I to be disturbed until noon at the earliest, but my subterfuge now seemed a bit foolish. As I locked the garden and walked through the herb and vegetable beds toward the kitchen door, it was not even mid-morning.
I pushed open the door to the kitchen and stepped into bedlam. Nellia was directing two white-faced serving girls to carry jugs of hot water upstairs as soon as they were ready, and another girl to take a stack of clean towels to the mistress’ room. When the housekeeper caught sight of me, she hurried toward me. “Oh, my lady, I’ve just sent Nancy to wake you. Though you said not to disturb, I knew you’d want to be told. It’s the duchess. Lady Verally has sent word.”
Philomena’s child. Weeks too early. “Has Ren Wesley been sent for?” I climbed the servants’ staircase alongside Nellia.
“I dispatched Francis right away, but-”
“… but it will be an entire day before he can be here. Has anyone on the staff had experience as a midwife?”
“Only Mad Lucy, the young duke’s old nurse.”
“She still lives here at the castle? Somehow I’d thought…”
“Aye, Duke Tomas let her stay as she’d nowhere else to go. But her mind’s long gone. She’s done naught but sit and rock in her chair for nigh on five years now.”
“Perhaps if we talked to her, even if she’s feeble in the mind, she might be able to help. Even when they can’t remember whether they’ve eaten dinner, old people can often remember what’s important to them-how to make bread or play a game or deliver a child.”
“No use. She’s a mute, you know. Even if she’d a thought to share, she couldn’t do it.”
“Then we must send to Graysteve for a midwife.”
Nellia puffed with effort as we passed through a door to the first floor passage. “But the duchess will have naught to do with anyone from the village. She says they’re common and ignorant. That’s why she hired Ren Wesley to come and stay for her last weeks, though, alas, it don’t appear the time was set right for him to come.”
“If the child is really on its way, I don’t think she’ll care. Send for the midwife.”
“As you wish, my lady.”