Then, of a sudden, a thought. Hladyr has answered. I know the truth. I know the source of the evil—at least where it lodges. . . .
In my own flock.
Remove Duran: then Targheiden and its people might be saved.
He had spent hours upon hours, seasons upon seasons, trying to save Duran's soul. Some souls, it seemed, were destined not to be saved. By anyone.
Hladyr, guide me! I don't know how to kill! I don't want to hurt any of your creatures, and so far Duran himself is surely no demon worshipper—only perilously close. What can I do? What should I do?
The image stared back, aloof, unreachable by any man's prayers.
Duran stood in the center of his bedroom and stared at the baskets he had leaned up against the outer wall. In those baskets he had carefully packed his most precious possessions: his father's notes, his alchemist's tools, his collections of various metals, his vials, beakers, a few of his small alembics. In what space remained, he had tucked in other sentimental odds and ends he could not see leaving behind.
He shook his head at the sight, and looked around at the rest of the room . . . at those things he knew he could not take with him.
There was the bed his parents had brought with them from the Ancahar estate, along with its nightstand. Next to it stood the old bookcase his wife had brought with her when they had married—the only thing of hers he had. They were among the last physical ties he had to those long-dead people he loved the most . . . the last things he could touch, knowing they had touched them, too.
He snarled a curse and turned away. He still could not believe he had agreed to leave town, no matter how desperate the -reason: he could not conceive of himself living anywhere else but Targheiden—going—
Where? Old Man had never yet said.
But the danger Old Man had warned him of, what Tutadar had said, were obvious facts. Why the hells had he not been able to see this before? He had known when he had helped Kekoja that he was dealing with fire. He had known.
I suppose, he thought, it's like everything else in life: we see terrible things; but nothing can happen to us.
It had happened.
He had no choice. If he was going to live out what years he had left of life in peace, if he was going to live at all—he would have to leave the city he loved.
And to do this, he would have to place complete trust in the Sabirn, in Old Man, in Kekoja. All last night, into the small hours, he had wrapped his prized possessions in water-proofed paper: his herbs, medicines, books, and tools. Then, after stowing everything in baskets, he had lowered three of those baskets out the upstairs alley window down into the alleyway and the waiting hands of gods only knew who. He had seen Kekoja, and someone he thought was a woman.
Where the Sabirn had gone with his baskets, he had no clue.
And now, he waited for darkness to fall again, so he could deliver the rest of his possessions into those same shadowy hands.
He began to pace, up and down, past the desk on which he had written so many things. Past the bookcase, nearly empty. Past the table on which his small furnace sat. He reached and ran a hand over the top of that furnace, remembering all the years he had worked in front of it, trying time and again to unlock the secrets of nature and the gods. . . .
The enormity of it all was beginning to sink in. He would never stand in this room again. He would never see the same sights again. Never, as long as he lived, would he be able to walk across the street and spend an evening with his neighbors in the "Cat," spinning out the day's happenings, and listening to homely gossip. He would be severed from everything he had known since he was a boy.
Twice now, in his overturned life. Twice a pilgrim in the world.
It hurt, the thought of it . . . burned in his heart like a brand.
He stopped pacing, and considered the step he was taking. His standing here in his apartment, visually recording the sights and sounds of it for the future, was like being present at someone's deathbed. But it was his own death, so to speak . . . a personal death, an ending of all the things he knew.
But dying at the hands of a mob was no way for an Ancar noble to leave the world. He still had things he wanted to do, wanted to learn, wanted to see. And if the gods had decreed that he would have to do all that somewhere besides Targheiden—
There was no choice.
A crowd had gathered in the street outside Ladirno's apartment, some of them having to stand out in the rain, away from the protection of the second story overhang. Ladirno drew the hood of his cloak up over his head and pushed his way into the back of the crowd. He was taller than most, so he had some kind of view.
It was a ducal herald, on horseback. The fellow looked as miserable as the folk who had assembled to hear him. His royal green cloak was drenched and dark, his wide-brimmed hat drooped, a steady stream of rain pouring off one side. The sight was enough to amuse—except the extraordinary fact of a herald out at all, in streets littered with broken shingle, except the grim, rain-chilled pallor of the faces that nothing would cheer.
"Attention citizens!" The heralds well-trained voice boomed out in the street as thunder rumbled overhead. "I come to you with word from His Grace, Hajun vro Telhern, Duke of Targheiden. These are the Duke's words:
"'All citizens of Targheiden: measures to bring an end to this freakish weather are being undertaken. His Grace the Duke, assures you he is confident that, by the grace of Hladyr the Shining, there will soon be an end to these storms. He urges you add your prayers to those the priests are offering. Rest assured that every wizard employed by His Grace the Duke is actively involved in turning this evil from the city.' So says His Grace, Duke Hajun vro Telhern."
A muster ran through the crowd. The herald drew his horse's head about and rode on. Ladirno snorted under his breath. Prayers? One hoped for more than that.
And the Duke's own wizards. All the Duke's wizards trying to do what Mandani and his associate were trying—
But the Duke would not believe—not believe the source of the evil.
As if—Ladirno shuddered—the Duke himself had fallen under some spell.
The rain increased and Ladirno broke into a slow run. The sign outside the "Shoe" was just ahead; swaying in the gusty wind, it offered a haven from the storm, and a chance for much needed companionship.
The rain had driven Vadami into "The Golden Shoe" some time ago, but his cloak was still cold and dripping. He sat at a small table toward the rear of the common room, sipping on a glass of hot mulled wine: such a drink had seemed right on this dreary day.
He had spent as little time as possible in Old Town today, visiting only the critically ill—sharing the Shining One's words with any who would listen. He had dropped in at "The Swimming Cat" for a brief while, and there had found out from Bontido, the potter, that Tutadar had managed to convince Duran to send the Sabirn boy away for a handful of days.
Such news should have made him happy, but Vadami had a certain feeling that as soon as things began to settle down, Duran would have the boy back in his place as a runner, and the neighborhood would be set off again. In all the years he had spoken with Duran, Vadami had not seen any urge on the other man's part to change his ways.
Especially now. Especially considering the influences being brought to bear on him.
He flinched at the measures that might be necessary. He shrank from the bloodshed that might be necessary, to stop this, remove his heretical thoughts from Old Town.