She smiled, seeing his startled look. “I don’t know who she is, or where, only that she has been born. And I’m not the only one, as Iya knows. The Harriers who came for me had heard of her from others. If you know, and they ever capture you, kill yourself before they can wring it from you.”
“But what does this thing have to do with her?” Arkoniel asked, perplexed.
“I don’t know. I don’t think Iya knows, but it is what the Airan Oracle showed her. This evil you carry is bound up with the fate of the future queen. You must not fail.”
Ranai accepted another sip of water. Her voice was fading and there was no color left in her face. “There’s something else, something only I know. Hyradin had a dream while he was Guardian, a vision that came to him again and again. He told it to Agazhar before he died and, not knowing what it meant, Agazhar told me before I knew enough to stop him. Perhaps that was Illior’s will, for it would have been lost otherwise. Take my hand again. The words I speak to you will never leave your memory. They must be passed on through all your successors, for yours is the last line. I pass them to you now as Agazhar should have, and a gift of my own with them.”
She clutched his hand and the room went black around Arkoniel. Her voice came to him out of the darkness, strong and clear as a young woman’s. “Hear the Dream of Hyradin. ‘And so came the Beautiful One, the Eater of Death, to strip the bones of the world. First clothed in Man’s flesh it came, crowned with a dread helm of darkness and none could stand against this One but Four.’ ”
Her voice changed, deepening to a man’s. The darkness parted and Arkoniel found himself in a forest clearing, facing a fair-haired man in ragged clothes. The stranger held the cursed bowl in his hands, offering it to him. “First shall be the Guardian, a vessel of light in the darkness,” he said to Arkoniel. “Then the Shaft and the Vanguard, who shall fail and yet not fail if the Guide, the Unseen One, goes forth. And at the last shall again be the Guardian, whose portion is bitter, bitter as gall when they meet under the Pillar of the Sky.”
The voice and vision faded away and Arkoniel blinked around at the familiar chamber. The words were etched in his mind, as Ranai had promised. He had only to think of them and the wizard’s voice seemed to speak in his ear. But what did they mean?
Ranai’s eye was closed, her face peaceful. It was a moment before he realized that she was dead. If she knew the meaning of the dream, she’d taken that knowledge with her to Bilairy’s gate.
He whispered the prayer of passing for her, then rose to find Iya. As he stood up his clothing fell away in ashes. Even his shoes had been reduced to cinders by the rush of the old woman’s power, yet his body was unmarked.
Wrapping himself in a blanket, he went to the door and let Iya in. She took the situation in at a glance. Cupping Arkoniel’s face between her hands, she gazed into his eyes, then nodded. “She passed her life force to you.”
“She made herself die?”
“Yes. She had no successor. By channeling her soul through yours as she died, she was trying to impart some of her power to you.”
“A gift,” Arkoniel murmured, sitting down by her. “I thought she meant the—” He caught himself. He’d spoken freely to Iya all his life; he felt like a traitor now, keeping secrets.
She sat on the end of the bed and gazed sadly at the dead woman. “It’s all right. No one understands better than I how things stand. Do what you must.”
“I won’t kill you, if that’s what you mean!”
Iya chuckled. “No, the Lightbearer has work for me yet. This is the proof of it. There are others, many others, who’ve had a glimpse of what Tobin will become. Illior is choosing those who will help her. For so long I thought I was the only one, but it seems I’m only the messenger. Others must be gathered and protected before the Harriers take them all.”
“But how?”
Iya reached into a pouch at her belt and tossed Arkoniel a small pebble; he’d lost track of how many of these little tokens she’d left with other wizards. “You’ve been safe enough here, all these years. I’ll send the others here for now. How do you feel?”
“No different.” Arkoniel rolled the pebble between his fingers. “Well, maybe a bit more scared.”
Iya rose and hugged him. “So am I.”
14
Tobin returned to the throne room several times, but had no more ghostly visitations. He was still a child, and in the way of children, it was easy to put his fears aside once the moment passed. The ghosts or gods or Iya would tell him when it was time to step forward. For now, he was simply Tobin, beloved cousin of a young prince, nephew of a king he’d never met. The Companions were cheered wherever they went, and Korin was everyone’s darling.
Bard as Porion and Raven worked the boys, winter was a time of special pleasures. The theaters of Ero staged their most lavish productions in the dark months; true marvels featuring live animals, mechanical devices, and fireworks. The Golden Tree surpassed all the other houses with a lengthy play cast entirely with real centaurs from the Ashek Mountains, the first of their kind Tobin and Ki had seen.
The markets were fragrant with the scent of roasting chestnuts and mulled cider, and bright with fine woolen goods from the northlands beyond Mycena. Street vendors sold sweets made of honey and fresh snow that glistened like amber in the sunlight.
Chancellor Hylus was a kindly guardian and saw to it that Tobin had ample pocket money, far more than Orun had seen fit to give him. Still unused to having gold or anywhere to spend it, Tobin would have let the coins gather dust in his room if Korin hadn’t insisted on visits to his favorite tailors, swordsmiths, and other merchants. Encouraged, Tobin got rid of the faded black velvet hangings in his bedchamber, replacing them with his own, blue and white and silver.
He also visited the artisans in Goldsmith Street and began making sculptures and bits of jewelry again. One day he shyly took a brooch he was rather proud of to show to an Aurënfaie jeweler whose work he especially admired. It was a filigree piece cast in bronze and fashioned to look like bare, intertwined branches. He had even included a few tiny leaves and set it with a scattering of tiny white crystals. He’d been thinking of the night sky over Lhel’s clearing and the way the stars winked through the oak branches on winter nights.
Master Tyral was a thin, silver-haired man with pale grey eyes and a bright blue sen’gai. Tobin was fascinated by these exotic folk and could already recognize half a dozen different clans by their distinctive headcloths and manner in which they wrapped the long strips of wool or silk around their heads. Tyral and his workmen all wore theirs in a sort of squat turban wrapped low on their heads, the long ends hanging over their left shoulders.
Tyral greeted him warmly as always, and invited Tobin to lay out his work on a square of black velvet. Tobin unwrapped the bronze brooch and put it down.
“You made this?” Tyral murmured in his soft, lilting accent. “And this, as well, yes?” he asked, pointing to the gold horse charm Tobin wore around his neck. “May I see it?”
Tobin handed it to him, then fidgeted nervously as the man examined both pieces closely. Looking around at the beautiful necklaces and rings on display around the fine shop, he began to regret his audacity. He’d come to enjoy the praise of his friends for his work, but they weren’t artists. What would this master craftsman care for his clumsy attempts?
“Tell me about this brooch. How did you achieve such fine lines?” Tyral asked, looking up with an expression Tobin couldn’t immediately interpret.
Tobin haltingly explained how he’d sculpted each tiny branch in wax, then woven the warmed filaments together and packed them in wet sand to receive the molten metal. Before he’d finished, the ’faie chuckled and held up a hand.