Tigana Part 40

Had waited. Season after season; shot birds falling from the sky.

Until last autumn, when the Healer had told her the cold large thing she had already guessed for herself. Half a year, he had said. If she was strong.

She had sent them from her room and lain in her iron bed and looked out at the leaves on the valley trees. The change of colours had come. She had loved that once; her favourite season for riding. As a girl, as a woman. It had occurred to her that these would be the last fall leaves she would ever see.

She had turned her mind from such thoughts and had begun to calculate. Days and months, and the numbering of the years. She had done the arithmetic twice, and a third time to be sure of it. She said nothing to Danoleon, not then. It was too soon.

Not until the end of winter, with all the leaves gone and ice just beginning to melt from the eaves, did she summon the High Priest and instruct him as to the letter she wanted sent to the place where she knew-as he knew, alone of all the priests-her son would be on the Ember Days that began this spring. She had done the calculations. Many times.

She had also timed it very well, and not by chance. She could see Danoleon wanting to protest, to dissuade, to speak of dangers and circ.u.mspection. But the ground was out from under his feet, she could see it in the way his large hands grew restless and the way his blue eyes moved about the room as if seeking an argument on the bare walls. She waited patiently for him to meet her gaze at last, as she knew he would, and then she saw him slowly bow his head in acceptance.

How did one deny a mother, dying, a message to her only living child? An entreaty to that child to come bid her farewell before she crossed over to Morian. Especially when that child, the boy he himself had guided south over the mountains so many years ago, was her last link to what she had been, to her own broken dreams and the lost dreams of her people?

Danoleon promised to write the letter and have it sent. She thanked him and lay back in her bed after he went out. She was genuinely weary, genuinely in pain. Hanging on. It would be half a year just past the Ember Days of spring. She had done the numbers. She would be alive to see him if he came. And he would come; she knew he would come to her.

The window had been open a little though it was still cold that day. Outside, the snow had lain in gentle drifting folds in the valley and up the slopes of the hills. She had looked out upon it but her thoughts, unexpectedly, had been of the sea. Dry-eyed, for she had not wept since everything fell, not once, not ever, she walked her memory-palaces of long ago and saw the waves come in to break and fall on the white sands of the sh.o.r.e, leaving sh.e.l.ls and pearls and other gifts along the curving beach.

So Pasithea di Tigana bren Serazi. Once a princess in a palace by the sea; mother of two dead sons, and of one who yet lived. Waiting, as winter near the mountains turned to spring in that year.

'Two things. First, we are musicians,' said Alessan. 'A newly formed company. Secondly: do not use my name. Not here.' His voice had taken on the clipped, hard cadences Devin remembered from the first night in the Sandreni lodge when this had all begun for him.

They were looking down on a valley running west in the clear light of afternoon. The Sperion lay behind them. The uneven, narrow road had wound its way for hours up around the shoulders of an ascending sequence of hills until this highest point. And now the valley unrolled before them, trees and gra.s.s touched by the earliest green-gold of spring. A tributary stream, swift-running with the melting snows, slanted northwest out of the foothills, flas.h.i.+ng with light. The temple dome in the midst of the Sanctuary gleamed silver in the middle distance.

'What name, then?' Erlein asked quietly. He seemed subdued, whether because of Alessan's tone or the awareness of danger, Devin did not know.

'Adreano,' the Prince said, after a moment. 'I am Adreano d'Astibar today. I will be a poet for this reunion. For this triumphant, joyous homecoming.'

Devin remembered the name: the young poet death-wheeled by Alberico last winter, after the scandal of the 'Sandreni Elegies'. He looked closely at the Prince for a moment and then away: this was not a day to probe. If he was here for any reason it was to try, somehow, to make things easier for Alessan. He didn't know how he was going to go about doing that though. He felt badly out of his depth again, his earlier rush of excitement fading before the grimness of the Prince's manner.

South of them, towering above the valley, the peaks of the Sfaroni Range loomed, higher even than the mountains above Castle Borso. There was snow on the peaks and even on the middle slopes; winter did not retreat so swiftly this high up, this far south. Below them though, north of the contoured foothills, in the sheltered eastwest running of the valley Devin could see green buds swelling on the trees. A grey hawk hung in an updraft for a moment, almost motionless, before wheeling south and down to be lost against the backdrop of the hills. Down on the valley floor the Sanctuary seemed to lie within its walls like a promise of peace and serenity, wrapped away from all the evils of the world.

Devin knew it was not so.

They rode down, not hurrying now, for that would have been unusual in three musicians come here at midday. Devin was keenly, anxiously aware of danger. The man he was riding behind was the last heir to Tigana. He wondered what Brandin of Ygrath would do to Alessan if the Prince was betrayed and taken after so many years. He remembered Marius of Quileia in the mountain pa.s.s: Do you trust this message? Do you trust this message?

Devin had never trusted the priests of Eanna in his whole life. They were too shrewd, by far the most subtle of the clergy, by far the most apt to steer events to their own ends, which might lie out of sight, generations away. Servants of a G.o.ddess, he supposed, might find it easier to take the longer view of things. But everyone knew that all across the peninsula the clergy of the Triad had their own triple understanding with the Tyrants from abroad: their collective silence, their tacit complicity, bought in exchange for being allowed to preserve the rites that mattered more to them, it seemed, than freedom in the Palm.

Even before meeting Alessan, Devin had had his own thoughts about that. On the subject of the clergy his father had never been shy about speaking his mind. And now Devin remembered again Garin's single candle of defiance twice a year on the Ember Nights of his childhood in Asoli. Now that he had begun to think about it, there seemed to be a great many nuances to the flickering lights of those candles in the dark. And more shadings to his own stolid father than he had ever guessed. Devin shook his head; this was not the time to wander down that path.

When the hill track finally wound its way down to the valley floor, a wider, smoother road began, slanting towards the Sanctuary in the middle of the valley. About half a mile away from the stone outer walls, a double row of trees began on either side of the approach. Elms, coming into early leaf. Beyond them on either side Devin saw men working in the fields, some lay servants and some of them priests, clad not in the white of ceremony, but in nondescript robes of beige, beginning the labours that the soil demanded at winter's end. One man was singing, a sweet, clear tenor voice.

The eastern gates of the Sanctuary complex were open before them, simple and unadorned save for the star-symbol of Eanna. The gates were high though, Devin noted, and of heavy wrought iron. The walls that enclosed the Sanctuary were high as well, and the stone was thick. There were also towers-eight of them-curving forward at intervals around the wide embrace of the walls. This was clearly a place built, however many hundreds of years ago, to withstand adversity. Set within the complex, rising serenely above everything else, the dome of Eanna's temple shone in the sunlight as they rode up to the open gates and pa.s.sed within.

Just inside Alessan pulled his horse to a halt. From ahead of them and some distance over to the left they heard the unexpected sound of children's laughter. In an open, gra.s.sy field set beyond a stable and a large residence hall a dozen young boys in blue tunics were playing maracco with sticks and a ball, supervised by a young priest in the beige work-robes.

Devin watched them with a sudden sharp sadness and nostalgia. He could remember, vividly, going into the woods near their farm with Povar and Nico when he was five years old, to cut and carry home his first maracco stick. And then the hours-minutes more often-s.n.a.t.c.hed from ch.o.r.es when the three of them would seize their sticks and one of the battered succession of b.a.l.l.s Nico had patiently wound together out of layers and layers of cloth, to whoop and slash their way about in the mud at the end of the barnyard, pretending they were the Asolini team at the upcoming Triad Games.

'I scored four times one game in my last year of temple schooling,' Erlein di Senzio said in a musing voice. 'I've never forgotten it. I doubt I ever will.'

Surprised and amused, Devin glanced over at the wizard. Alessan turned in his saddle to look back as well. After a moment the three men exchanged a smile. In the distance the children's shouts and laughter gradually subsided. The three of them had been seen. It was unlikely that the appearance of strangers was a common event here, especially so soon after the melting of the snow.

The young priest had left the playing field and was making his way over, as was an older man with a full black leather ap.r.o.n over his robes of beige, coming from where the sheep and goats and cows were kept in pens on the other side of the central avenue. Some distance in front of them lay the arched entrance to the temple and beside it on the right and a little behind, the smaller dome of the observatory-for in all her Sanctuaries the priests of Eanna tracked and observed the stars she had named.

The complex was enormous, even more so than it had seemed from above on the hill slopes. There were a great many priests and servants moving about the grounds, entering and leaving the temple itself, working among the animals, or in the vegetable gardens Devin could see beyond the observatory. From that direction as well came the unmistakable clanging of a blacksmith's forge. Smoke rose up there, to be caught and carried by the mild breeze. Overhead he saw the hawk again, or a different one, circling lazily against the blue.

Alessan dismounted and Devin and Erlein did the same just as the two priests came up to them, at almost exactly the same moment. The younger one, sandy-haired and small like Devin, laughed and gestured at himself and his colleague.

'Not much of a greeting party, I'm afraid. We weren't expecting visitors this early in the year, I must admit. No one even noticed you riding down. Be welcome though, be most welcome to Eanna's Sanctuary, whatever the reason you have come to us. May the G.o.ddess know you and name you hers.' He had a cheerful manner and an easy smile.

Alessan returned the smile. 'May she know and surely name all who dwell within these walls. To be honest, we wouldn't have been certain how to deal with a more official greeting. We haven't actually worked out our entrance routines yet. And as for early in the year-well, everyone knows new-formed companies have to get moving sooner than the established ones or they are likely to starve.'

'You are musical performers?' the older priest asked heavily, wiping his hands on the heavy ap.r.o.n he wore. He was balding and brown and grizzled, and there was a gap where two of his front teeth ought to have been.

'We are,' said Alessan with some attempt at a grand manner. 'My name is Adreano d'Astibar. I play the Tregean pipes, and with me is Erlein di Senzio, the finest harp player in all of the peninsula. And I must tell you truly, you haven't heard singing until you've listened to our young companion Devin d'Asoli.'

The younger priest laughed again. 'Oh, well done! I should bring you along to the outer school to give a lesson to my charges in rhetoric.'

'I'd do better to teach the pipes,' Alessan smiled. 'If music is part of your programme here.'

The priest's mouth twitched. 'Formal music,' he said. 'This is is Eanna, not Morian, after all.' Eanna, not Morian, after all.'

'Of course,' said Alessan hastily. 'Very formal music for the young ones boarding here. But for the servants of the G.o.ddess themselves ...?' He arched one of his dark eyebrows.

'I will admit,' said the sandy-haired young priest, smiling again, 'to a preference for Rauder's early music myself.'

'And no one plays it better than we,' Alessan said smoothly. 'I can see we have come to the right place. Should we make our obeisance to the High Priest?'

'You should,' said the older man, not smiling. He began untying the ap.r.o.n-strings at his back. 'I'll take you to him. Savandi, your charges are about to commit a.s.sault upon each other or worse. Have you no control at all over them?'

Savandi spun to look, swore feelingly in a quite unpriestly fas.h.i.+on, and began running towards the games field shouting imprecations. From this distance it did indeed seem to Devin that the maracco sticks were being used by Savandi's young charges in a fas.h.i.+on distinctly at variance with the accepted rules of the game.

Devin saw Erlein grinning as he watched the boys. The wizard's lean face changed when he smiled. When the smile was a true one, not the ironic, slipping-sideways expression he so often used to indicate a sour, superior disdain.

The older priest, grim-faced, pulled his leather ap.r.o.n over his head, folded it neatly, and draped it over one of the bars of the adjacent sheepfold. He barked a name Devin could not make out and another young man-a servant this time-hastily emerged from the stables on their left.

'Take their horses,' the priest ordered bluntly. 'See that their goods are brought to the guest house.'

'I'll keep my pipes,' Alessan said quickly.

'And I my harp,' Erlein added. 'No lack of trust, you understand, but a musician and his instrument...?'

This priest was somewhat lacking in Savandi's comfortable manner. 'As you will,' was all he said. 'Come. My name is Torre, I am the porter of this Holy Sanctuary. You must be brought to the High Priest.' He turned and set off without waiting for them, on a path going around to the left of the temple.

Devin and Erlein looked at each other and exchanged a shrug. They followed Torre and Alessan, pa.s.sing a number of other priests and lay servants, most of whom smiled at them, somewhat making up for their dour, self-appointed guide.

They caught up to the other two as they rounded the southern side of the temple. Torre had stopped, Alessan beside him. The balding porter looked around, quite casually, then said, almost as casually: 'Trust no one. Speak truth to none but Danoleon or myself. These are his words. You have been expected. We thought it would be another night, perhaps two before you came, but she said it would be today.'

'Then I have proved her right. How gratifying,' said Alessan in an odd voice.

Devin felt suddenly cold. Off to their left, in the games field, Savandi's boys were laughing again, lithe shapes clad in blue, running after a white ball. From within the dome he could hear, faintly, the sound of chanting. The end of the afternoon invocations. Two priests in formal white came along the path from the opposite direction, arm in arm, disputing animatedly.

'This is the kitchen, and this the bakehouse,' Torre said clearly, pointing as he spoke. 'Over there is the brewhouse. You will have heard of the ale we make here, I have no doubt.'

'Of course we have,' murmured Erlein politely, as Alessan said nothing.

The two priests slowed, registered the presence of the strangers and their musical instruments, and went on. 'Just over there is the High Priest's house,' Torre continued, 'beyond the kitchen and the outer school.'

The other two priests, resuming their argument, swept briskly around the curve of the path that led to the front of the temple.

Torre fell silent. Then, very softly, he said: 'Eanna be praised for her most gracious love. May all tongues give her praise. Welcome home, my Prince. Oh, in the name of love, be welcome home at last. Welcome home, my Prince. Oh, in the name of love, be welcome home at last.'

Devin swallowed awkwardly, looking from Torre to Alessan. An uncontrollable s.h.i.+ver ran along his spine: there were tears, bright-sparkling in the brilliant sunlight, in the porter's eyes.

Alessan made no reply. He lowered his head, and Devin could not see his eyes. They heard children's laughter, the final notes of a sung prayer.

'She is still alive then?' Alessan asked, looking up at last.

'She is,' said Torre emotionally. 'She is still alive. She is very-' He could not finish the sentence.

'There is no point in the three of us being careful if you are going to spill tears like a child,' Alessan said sharply. 'Enough of that, unless you want me dead.'

Torre gulped. 'Forgive me,' he whispered. 'Forgive me, my lord.'

'No! Not "my lord". Not even when we are alone. I am Adreano d'Astibar, musician.' Alessan's voice was hard. 'Now take me to Danoleon.'

The porter wiped quickly at his eyes. He straightened his shoulders. 'Where do you think we are going?' he snapped, almost managing his earlier tone again. He spun on his heel and strode up the path.

'Good,' Alessan murmured to the priest, from behind. 'Very good, my friend.' Trailing them both, Devin saw Torre's head lift at the words. He glanced at Erlein but this time the wizard, his expression thoughtful, did not return the look.

They pa.s.sed the kitchens and then the outer school where Savandi's charges-children of n.o.blemen or wealthy merchants, sent here to be educated-would study and sleep. All across the Palm such teaching was a part of the role of the clergy, and a source of a goodly portion of their wealth. The Sanctuaries vied with each other to draw student boarders-and their fathers' money.

It was silent within the large building now. If the dozen or so boys on the games-field with Savandi were all the students in the complex, then Eanna's Sanctuary in Lower Corte was not doing very well.

On the other hand, Devin thought, who of those left in Lower Corte could afford Sanctuary schooling for their children now? And what shrewd businessman from Corte or Chiara, having bought up cheap land here in the south, would not send his son home to be educated? Lower Corte was a place where a clever man from elsewhere could make money out of the ruin of the inhabitants, but it was not a place to put down roots. Who wanted to be rooted in the soil of Brandin's hate?

Torre led them up the steps of a covered portico and then through the open doorway of the High Priest's house. All doors seemed to be open to the spring suns.h.i.+ne, after the shuttered holiness of the Ember Days just past.

They stood in a large, handsome, high-ceilinged sitting-room. A huge fireplace dominated the southwestern end and a number of comfortable chairs and small tables were arranged on a deep-piled carpet. Crystal decanters on a sideboard held a variety of wines. Devin saw two bookcases on the southern wall but no books. The cases had been left to stand, disconcertingly empty. The books of Tigana had been burned. He had been told about that.

Arched doorways in both the eastern and western walls led out to porches where the sunlight could be caught in the morning and at eve. On the far side of the room there was a closed door, almost certainly leading to the bedchamber. There were four cleverly designed, square recesses in the walls and another smaller one above the fire where statues would once have stood. These too were gone. Only the ubiquitous silver stars of Eanna served for painted decoration on the walls.

The door to the bedroom opened and two priests came out.

They seemed surprised, but not unduly so, to see the porter waiting with three visitors. One man was of medium height and middle years, with a sharp face and close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. He carried a physician's tray of herbs and powders in front of him, supported on a thong about his neck.

It was at the other man that Devin stared, though. It was the other man who carried the High Priest's staff of office. He would have commanded attention even without it, Devin thought, gazing at the figure of what had to be Danoleon.

The High Priest was an enormous man, broad-shouldered with a chest like a barrel, straight-backed despite his years. His long hair and the beard that covered half his chest were both white as new snow, even against the whiteness of his robe. Thick straight eyebrows met in the middle of a serene brow and above eyes as clear and blue as a child's. The hand he wrapped about the ma.s.sive staff of office held it as if it were no more than a cowherd's hazel switch.

If they were like this, Devin thought, awed, looking up at the man who had been High Priest of Eanna in Tigana when the Ygrathens came, Devin thought, awed, looking up at the man who had been High Priest of Eanna in Tigana when the Ygrathens came, if the leaders were all like this then there were truly great men here before the fall. if the leaders were all like this then there were truly great men here before the fall.

They couldn't have been so different from today; he knew that rationally. It was only twenty years ago, however much might have changed and fallen away. But even so, it was hard not to feel daunted in the commanding presence of this man. He turned from Danoleon to Alessan: slight, unprepossessing, with his disorderly, prematurely silvered hair and cool, watchful eyes, and the nondescript, dusty, road-stained riding clothes he wore.

But when he turned back to the High Priest he saw that Danoleon was squeezing his own eyes tightly shut as he drew a ragged breath. And in that moment Devin realized, with a thrill that was oddly akin to pain, where, despite all appearances, the truth of power lay between these men. It was Danoleon, he remembered, who had taken the boy Alessan, the last prince of Tigana, south and away in hiding across the mountains all those years ago.

And would not have seen him again since that time. There was grey in the hair of the tired man who stood before the High Priest now. Danoleon would be seeing that, trying to deal with it. Devin found himself hurting for the two of them. He thought about the years, all the lost years that had tumbled and spun and drifted like leaves or snow between these two, then and now.

He wished he were older, a wiser man with a deeper understanding. There seemed to be so many truths or realizations of late, hovering at the edge of his awareness, waiting to be grasped and claimed, just out of reach.

'We have guests,' Torre said in his brusque manner. 'Three musicians, a newly formed company.'

'Hah!' the priest with the medicine-tray grunted with a sour expression. 'Newly formed? They'd have to be to venture here and this early in the year. I can't remember the last time someone of any talent showed up in this Sanctuary. Can you three play anything that won't clear a room of people, eh?'

'It depends on the people,' said Alessan mildly.

Danoleon smiled, though he seemed to be trying not to. He turned to the other priest. 'Idrisi, it is just barely possible that if we offered a warmer welcome we might be graced with visitors happier to display their art.' The other man grunted what might or might not have been an apology under the scrutiny of that placid blue gaze.

Danoleon turned back to the three of them. 'You will forgive us,' he murmured. His voice was deep and soothing. 'We have had some disconcerting news recently, and right now we have a patient in some pain. Idrisi di Corte, here, our physician, tends to be distressed when such is the case.'

Privately, Devin doubted if distress had much to do with the Cortean priest's rudeness, but he kept his peace. Alessan accepted Danoleon's apology with a short bow.

'I am sorry to hear that,' he said to Idrisi. 'Is it possible we might be of aid? Music has long been known as a sovereign ease for pain. We should be happy to play for any of your patients.' He was ignoring for the moment, Devin noted, the news Danoleon had mentioned. It was unlikely to be an accident that Danoleon had given them Idrisi's formal name-making clear that he was from Corte.

The physician shrugged. 'As you please. She is certainly not sleeping, and it can do no harm. She is almost out of my hands now, in any case. The High Priest has had her brought here against my will. Not that I can do very much any more. In truth she belongs to Morian now.' He turned to Danoleon. 'If they tire her out, fine. If she sleeps it is a blessing. I will be in the infirmary or in my garden. I'll check in here tonight, unless I have word from you before.'

'Will you not stay to hear us play, then?' Alessan asked. 'We might surprise you.'

Idrisi grimaced. 'I have no leisure for such things. Tonight in the dining hall, perhaps. Surprise me.' He flashed a small, unexpected smile, gone as quickly as it appeared, and went past them with brisk, irritated strides out the door.

There was a short silence.

'He is a good man,' Danoleon said softly, almost apologetically.

'He is a Cortean,' Torre muttered darkly.

The High Priest shook his handsome head. 'He is a good man,' he repeated. 'It angers him when people die in his care.' His gaze went back to Alessan. His hand s.h.i.+fted a little on his staff. He opened his mouth to speak.

'My lord, my name is Adreano d'Astibar,' Alessan said firmly. 'This is Devin ... Asoli, whose father Garin you may perhaps remember from Stevanien.' He waited. Danoleon's blue eyes widened, looking at Devin. 'And this,' Alessan finished, 'is our friend Erlein di Senzio, who plays harp among other gifts of his hands.'

As he spoke those last words, Alessan held up his left palm with two fingers curled down. Danoleon looked quickly at Erlein, and then back to the Prince. He had grown pale, and Devin was suddenly made aware that the High Priest was a very old man.