Текст книги "The Wide World's End"

Автор книги: James Enge

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When Morlock dragged himself out from beneath the dead ice-dragon, he heard Ambrosia screaming and got up to run toward her. But he was stopped by the sight of Liyurriu’s body, shattered like a clay figurine, past all repairing.

Its eyes were open, though, and they were on Morlock.

“Shall I sever your life?” he asked, drawing his deadly dark sword.

“You forget,” said a voice, speaking flawless Wardic through Liyurriu’s unmoving jaws, “that this body is not truly alive. It will be no more use to you and yours, Ambrosius, and I plan to abandon it.”

“Then.”

“Good luck at the end of the world, Ambrosius. I will know you if we meet again. But you won’t know me.” The voice laughed a little through the werewolf’s deformed, unmoving jaws. Then the wolvish eyes closed and Liyurriu was silent forever.

Morlock looked about and saw that Deor was already with Ambrosia by Kelat’s fallen body. He strode over and said, “Dead?”

“No,” Ambrosia said tonelessly. The focus-jewel hanging from her neck was glowing, as were her closed eyes. “Help me.”

Kelat’s hands and forearms were bone-white with frost, as was his left leg. There was no doubt what help Ambrosia wanted: she must be concentrating the heat in his body on those frozen areas, thawing them out before they died.

He lay down in the snow and summoned deep vision as fast as he was able. If Kelat could be saved, time was their enemy.

Kelat awoke to the cheery light of a fire flickering on the shelter walls.

That was odd. But it was pleasing. He thought he would never see fire again. He thought he would never see anything again.

He tested his hands. They ached unbearably, but he could move them. His leg, too.

“Oh, you’ll live to fight another dragon someday, if that’s what you’re worrying about, Prince Uthar,” he heard Deor remark.

Kelat lifted his head. “Name’s Kelat.”

“Yes, but Ambrosia suggested we start calling you Uthar instead. It’s all those other Uthars who’ll have to change their names, from the sound of things.”

Kelat considered this in silence. It seemed rather momentous, but in a distant way. Being alive—and not seeing his arms and leg go the way of his nose—all that seemed more important, was certainly more immediate.

Morlock and Ambrosia were lying still on opposite sides of the fire. Their eyes were not lit up with vision. They were just sleeping.

Kelat gestured at the fire. “What . . . ? What . . . ?”

“My pack,” Deor said. “It was almost empty anyway, so I’ll distribute what’s left among the other three. The seers are out, as you see, and we have to get through the night somehow. I had some fun designing the occlusion so that the smoke departs but most of the heat remains—but I suppose you don’t care about that.”

“Keeps me alive. I care.”

“Some food will help, too. I was all for making werewolf sausages out of that dead meat-puppet, but Morlock seemed to think the meat might not be healthy.”

“Ugh.”

“Well, that was what he actually said. I take it you agree. You want a mouthful of flatbread and dried meat? It’s what we’ve got, so that’s kind of a rhetorical question.”

“Water more.”

Deor unfolded a flatware bowl and got him some melted snow.

“We’re going to make it, I think,” Deor said to him while he drank. “I didn’t think so before.”

“Make it a while longer,” said Kelat. He tried to think of himself as Uthar. He was still thinking about it when he fell asleep.

They did make it.

One pale, unremarkable morning they ate the last crumbs of their food and struck their shelters. They trudged up a steep ridge and, at the top, looked all the way down to forever: the wintry sky of that harsh summer faded to a misty blue like evening below. The land ran raggedly up to the edge of the sky and stopped. At the very end of the world, the winds from beyond the edge had scoured the stone free of snow.

But they no longer needed the track of the sun’s death in the snow to lead them. There, on the blue-black stone at the ragged edge of the world was a bridgehead. Beyond it a bridge extended in a long, curving arch beyond the eye’s ability to follow: paving stones black and white gave way at some indefinable point to patches of light and darkness.

“The Soul Bridge,” Ambrosia remarked.

Morlock nodded. There was nothing else it could be: the bridge the Sunkillers had made to invade the world, the way Skellar had been sent beyond the sky by Rulgân.

They saw no one there at or near the bridge, but their enemies were not material entities. Morlock kicked off his much-repaired snowshoes and drew Tyrfing, which was also not a material entity (or at least not merely material). He strode down the far side of the ridge and walked up to the bridgehead, Ambrosia at his side, the others close behind.

As he got closer, he did see someone or something: a vaguely manlike body, half-buried in snow, sprawled next to the bridgehead.

“Skellar,” he called over his shoulder.

Ambrosia grabbed Morlock by the elbow. He turned to look at her. She was in rapture, eyes closed and faintly glowing, the focus-amulet at her throat throbbing with pulses of light.

The light faded. She opened her eyes.

“Then?” he said.

“The body is not dead, but neither is it the residence of a soul any longer. There is nothing else alive between here and the edge of the sky except us—and except that.” She pointed at the Soul Bridge.

He grunted. “Alive?”

“It is tal interwoven with matter, like your blade Tyrfing there. Or, for that matter, like you.”

“Odd, but not unexpected. What’s troubling you?”

“That.” She pointed at something on the first step of the bridgehead: sheets of crystal, pinned with something like ice to the stone. There was dark writing on the crystal in a language that he knew, by a hand that he recognized.

It was a letter. And it was addressed to him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Graith Divided

The battle outside the Dome of the Graith grew louder, but it was hard to tell who was winning. Apart from cries of pain, no one spoke: there were no pleas for mercy, no offers of quarter, no boasts or war cries.

“Aloê,” Lernaion began.

“Shut up, and I mean both of you. Any talking you do you can do to the Graith at Station. It sounds like it won’t be long now.”

“You’re very confident your allies will win.”

“Fairly confident. You’d better hope I’m right. If that door opens and your servant Maijarra lets in your band of thugs, then I’ll kill you both and have done.”

Lernaion allowed himself a cold smile. “Very confident. But how will you justify yourself to your peers in the Graith.”

“I have the Graith’s mandate, you old fool! I am the Graith’s vengeancer, and you three are the murderers of a summoner. Your lives are mine whenever I choose to take them.”

Bleys was looking toward the double doors. The sound of the battle was fading, gone. Booted feet came striding up the hallway.

The doors were unbarred from the outside and Maijarra swung them open. Her silver spear was deeply stained with blood.

Aloê tensed and Bleys laughed aloud.

Through the open doors strode Noreê, Jordel, Illion, Styrth Anvri, Sundra, Callion, Keluaê Hendaij—bloody weapons in their hands, grim looks on their faces. The Awkward Bastards were victorious, but not triumphant. Aloê knew how they felt.

“Vocate Maijarra!” cried Bleys. “How could you betray us?”

Maijarra’s milk-pale face was motionless, unmoved. “I am thain to the Graith of Guardians,” she said, “not to you.”

And, at Aloê’s command, she put the summoners in chains and led them away to the lockhouse.

The trial of the summoners had to wait for the healing of the Witness Stone. (Illion and Noreê were taking up that task.) But other strings in the conspiratorial web snapped more easily.

Aloê got a writ of authority from the High Arbitrate and rode on Raudhfax up to Big Rock to apprehend Ulvana. She anticipated some difficulty finding Ulvana: the woman must have heard of Naevros’ exposure, and she had many places to hide in.

But when Aloê arrived at Big Rock House, the householder told her that Ulvana was being held prisoner at the Arbiter’s House . . . by Noreê, who had appeared with a company of thains the night before.

“Thanks, Goodman Parell,” Aloê said.

“Will you be staying with us long, I hope?”

“Only overnight, I think.”

“Are you going to the Arbiter’s House instanter?”

“Yes, goodman, if that means what I think it means.”

Parell hesitated a moment and said, “Will you please tell Vocate Noreê to have her things removed from here? It’s just that—well, if she wants an explanation, I will make one to her.”

“I’ll tell her, Parell.”

“Thanks to you for that. Vocate, I don’t know if I’m too old-fashioned or not old-fashioned enough. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Which would you rather be, goodman?”

“What? What? Oh, too old-fashioned, I suppose. I’m too decrepit to be taking on modish airs—wearing purple shoes and talking about the latest ballads as if I could tell one note from another anymore. But I tell you, Guardian, in the old days it was not done. Your Graith didn’t ride into a town like they were a conquering army and we were peasants who had to . . . well, do something peasanty. But I suppose I’m talking too much.”

“Not too much for me. Say it loud and say it often, goodman.”

“Have been. Good day to you, Vocate.”

“Good day, Parell.”

Aloê left the inn and walked across the way to the Arbiter’s House. There was a cloud of thains surrounding it, leaning on their spears. There were no townfolk in the street.

A thain held out his spear to prevent Aloê from entering the Arbiter’s House. “You’ll have to wait here, Vocate. And leave your weapon. Vocate Noreê’s orders.”

Aloê always carried her songbow of the runic rose these days, slung over her shoulder. She took it in her hands and struck the thain blocking her to the ground. The others started forward but she ignored them, bending over to rip the gray cape from the fastenings at the fallen man’s shoulders.

“I expel you from the Graith,” she said to him, as he stared vacantly up at her. “Hinder me again, and I’ll expel you from the Wardlands. Resist me, and I’ll banish you from the land of the living. Now get out of my way. Get out of my way, all of you.”

They hesitated.

She grabbed the spear from the ex-thain and said, “By God Avenger, from this moment forward you will give way before a red cloak if it’s only hanging on a clothesline. Clear off!”

The fallen man scrambled to one side and the rest stood back, their eyes resentful. She felt they were yielding to her personally, not to the principle. And that wasn’t enough. But it was a problem for another day. She cast the spear into the dust of the street and walked past them into the Arbiter’s House.

Noreê was walking toward the door, and her pale eyes crossed gazes with Aloê’s in an almost audible clash. “You had some trouble getting in?” asked Noreê.

“Yes. Your private army is a problem, Noreê. For the Guarded—the Guardians—the Guard itself.”

Noreê waved a scarred, ice-pale hand. “A temporary measure. I’ve no longing for kingship, I assure you.”

“What if others long to make you king?” Aloê replied.

“Nonsense. I’m no Ambrose. You came to talk to Ulvana, I guess?”

“I don’t speak nonsense, Noreê. I’m telling you something you need to hear. And, yes, I came to speak to Ulvana. If it suits you to permit it, of course.”

“You have the wrong idea about me, Aloê. I was maintaining the Guard before you were born.”

“As Merlin was before you were born. It is you who has the wrong idea about you, Guardian. Look to it.”

Noreê’s pale eyes looked on her patiently and her pale lips actually smiled. She had heard what Aloê had said; she did not regard it in the least.

“This emergency will be over soon,” she said, patting Aloê on the arm. “Let’s not quarrel about it.”

It was maddening to Aloê that Noreê didn’t take the issue seriously—as if it were a matter of taste, like a disagreement about after-dinner cheeses. If she would not listen to Aloê now, there would come a time soon when she must be made to listen.

They went together, but not in the same mind, to the Arbiter’s Hall of Audience.

Ulvana was sitting in the Arbiter’s chair. There was no one in the room with her; she was not reading or writing or doing anything—just sitting there with a vacant look on her face.

“Ulvana,” said Aloê, “the Graith of Guardians has a claim of vengeance against you. I have a writ from the Arbitrate deposing you from your rank as Arbiter and waiving vengeance on your behalf. Do you have anyone else who would choose to act for you?”

“No,” said Ulvana in a monotone. “My family has washed their hands of me. My life is yours.”

“The Graith will give you death or exile, on my recommendation. Will you answer my questions?”

“I don’t care. Yes. Ask them.”

“Did you participate in the murders of Summoner Earno and of Necrophor Oluma Cyning?”

“No! Not exactly.”

“Did you participate in any way in those murders? Did you know about them in advance? Did you assist the murderer afterwards?”

Ulvana looked down for a moment, saying nothing. Then she raised her head again and gave each of the Guardians a defiant look. “The murderer. The murderer. Can’t you say his name? Is he nothing more to you than that?”

“Tell me his name. Tell me what you know about this business, and I will exercise the Graith’s mercy. If not, I will execute the Graith’s vengeance.”

“Mercy!” said Ulvana, and laughed sobbingly. “Mercy! What can you do to me that’s worse than what you’ve already done?”

“Why, I don’t know,” said Aloê courteously. “I would ask Earno and Oluma what they think, only they’re dead, you see.”

“It had to be you,” Ulvana moaned. “The both of you. The unattainable ice princesses, white and black. The ones he never felt worthy of, so that he had to grovel in the muck. Muck like me. Like me.”

“Listen, Ulvana, I’m no princess. I work for a living. And I’m not unattainable; just married.”

“To that thing. That Morlock. He’s probably had you both.”

Grim, white-haired Noreê, one of the great seers of the world and one of the three Victors of Kaen, snorted with surprised laughter. She turned away to regain her composure.

“Here’s where it stands with me, Ulvana,” Aloê said. “I am the Graith’s vengeancer. I could kill you now, if I chose, with only the Graith to answer to.”

“Go ahead. I want you to. I’m sick of everything.”

“I could, and I may do the same thing to Naevros syr Tol.”

Ulvana grew very still.

“Or,” Aloê added, “I could exile you both. Strictly speaking, that prerogative rests with the Summoner of the City, but he is in disgrace at the moment and the Graith has delegated his power in this matter to me. I can kill you, and I assure you it will be an easy death. But I would prefer to send you into exile. With Naevros, if possible. But I need a reason to do so, a reason for the Graith to forego vengeance. Tell me what happened. Make me understand.”

“He’d hate me,” Ulvana said, looking at something far beyond the walls of this room. “He’d hate me for the rest of his life.”

Taking a risk, Aloê said, “He hates you now. If he loved you, he would not have put you in this hole. The question is not what he wants for you. The question is what you want for him—and what you still may get from him. If he dies, all hope dies with him. If he lives, someday he may turn to you. Who else would he have?”

Ulvana completely broke down, weeping into her hands for what seemed an endless time. At last, she told Aloê everything she knew.

Naevros had come back into her life a year ago, riding up to Big Rock from A Thousand Towers on some sort of business. He said he had come to respect her for making her own way in the world—that he was sorry for the way he had treated her—that he hoped it could be different now. He deployed as many lies as he needed to seduce her again, and Aloê got them all from Ulvana.

It was about five months ago that he revealed he had an ulterior purpose in resuming the affair. That was when she knew everything he’d said was a lie. And he knew that she knew—smiled to himself as he watched her realize it. But she had already yielded her pride to him, and found that she couldn’t reclaim it—didn’t want it.

Ulvana said, “I could feel again—really feel—surrender myself to it—not have to, to watch myself and correct myself, but be what I was meant to be! I don’t suppose either of you can understand that.”

Aloê wasn’t interested enough in the subject to express a thought on it. What she wanted to know was what Naevros had said and done before the murder. She said placatingly to Ulvana, “We want to understand your experience so that the Graith can judge you fairly. What did Naevros say to you about the plot? What did he want done?”

Ulvana sighed. “He said he and his allies had a plan to save the Wardlands, but that it was risky, and not all of the Graith would be willing to take the risk. He said that he was to eliminate the Summoner Earno, and perhaps others if it came to it. He said—he said—I was the only person he could trust!”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Are you? Are you? I wish I could be. I had timber lodges near the Road, and he knew it. I knew the lands all around here, and he knew it. I was Arbiter of the Peace, charged with investigating murders hereabouts, and he knew it. But I think he trusted me, too. Don’t you think so?”

“He must have, to let you so deeply into his counsels.”

“Yes. Yes, exactly!” Ulvana’s reply was frantic—so frantic that Aloê wondered if she was also worried about the alternative: that Naevros told her so much because he planned to stop her mouth with death when he was done with her.

“What did he tell you about Oluma Cyning?”

“Nothing, except that he had corrupted a necrophor and that she would assist in the investigation of Earno’s murder. Or do you mean afterward? When he. . . . When he. . . .”

“Tell me about all of it.”

“Well—he told me what I told you. When the necrophor—”

“Oluma?”

“Yes, her. When she came to town she told me what she knew about the plot, and warned me not to trust the healer—”

“Denynê.”

“Yes, her. The necrophor warned me not to trust the healer, as Naevros had been unable to get at her.”

“Seduce her, you mean?”

“I suppose. I suppose that was what she meant. She laughed when she said it.”

“Oluma herself succeeded at that, didn’t she?”

“Yes.” Ulvana wrinkled her nose in matronly disapproval. “She bragged about it to me—thought it was funny. That’s what the whole business was for her; a grim sort of, of lark.”

“But Oluma didn’t manage to drag Denynê into the conspiracy?”

“As far as I know, she didn’t try. She wasn’t that interested; it was just one more game in all the games she was constantly playing. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Naevros had to kill her.”

“But you were surprised?”

“Yes, it. . . . I was surprised, yes.” And frightened, too, Aloê thought, looking at Ulvana’s face now and remembering it then, when they had found Oluma in the corpse-house. Frightened that Naevros was getting rid of his fellow conspirators: that was Aloê’s guess. Ulvana lived simultaneously with two different versions of Naevros: the hero of her love-romance, and the cold-hearted seducer and murderer.

“What was your role in all this?” Aloê asked. “What did he want you to do?”

“I showed him the . . . the lay of the land, I suppose. He spent some time at my old lumber camps. He wanted me to report to him how the investigation went. And, of course, he stayed with me after it, after the thing.”

“After he had murdered Earno.”

“Yes, that. He could not afford to be seen—there was a simulacrum of himself he had left in the North to give himself an alibi. So he was with me for a number of days. That was. . . . That was a good time.”

Because she’d had her beloved all to herself, Aloê thought. And, of course, he would have been at his most charming; his plan depended on keeping Ulvana happy.

“Did you attempt to mislead me at any time?” Aloê asked.

“Only by omission. Naevros warned me about that in a letter, as soon as he found out that you would be the Graith’s vengeancer. He said I should act as I would if . . . if I were not involved. He said you would know if I did not. He rates your cleverness very highly. More highly than he does mine. And he’s quite right, of course. I still don’t understand what you discovered in our journey together. Was it something you saw in your vision? He said he had a way of concealing his talic imprint from a seer. Did it fail him?”

“No. Tell me, Ulvana, why did Naevros create such an elaborate murder plan? Why not arrange something less spectacular, something that might have passed as an accident?”

“Oh, that wasn’t his idea. His partners—his seniors, he called them—they insisted on it. They said they needed to be sure they put Earno out of the way; he was blocking some important task they had in hand. And if an attempt was made and failed, it might draw suspicion.”

“If you strike at the king, you must kill him,” Noreê said, somewhat blasphemously. Ulvana started a little in her chair: she had forgotten the older vocate was there.

Aloê met Noreê’s cool gaze and they both nodded: they were done here.

“Ulvana,” said Aloê, “I’ll consider your case and consult my peers in the Graith. In the meantime, you must be under guard. The thains here, or some others, will take you to the High Arbitrate in A Thousand Towers.”

“I don’t wish to go there. I don’t want to see those people.”

“You must go somewhere, and you can’t stay here.”

“Yes. I see that. I don’t want to stay here, either. Aloê, I’ve answered your questions; won’t you answer mine? What did you discover that led you to Naevros?”

Aloê hesitated before answering. But there was no obvious reason not to tell her.

“It didn’t mean anything to me at the time,” she admitted. “But there was a scent in one of the beds I slept in at your logging shelters—a sort of sweet musk.”

“Oh,” Ulvana said quietly. Then, “I gave him that scent. It was a present.”

“I noticed it on him later when I met him in the city. That was what helped me guess. The proof came later.” Aloê thought of Denynê and frowned at a painful memory.

“He said he would wear it in the city,” Ulvana said. “But I wasn’t sure. . . . I wasn’t sure whether that was only one of his lies.” She looked sharply at Aloê and seemed to be about to speak. Aloê looked straight into her eyes and she flinched.

“Did you always despise me?” she asked plaintively, as Aloê turned to go.

Aloê considered the question fairly. “No,” she said. “No, when I met you again in Big Rock, I sort of liked you. But that wasn’t really you, was it?”

“It used to be,” Ulvana said sadly. “Until a year or so ago.”

Aloê shook her head and strode away through the door. Noreê followed her out, and the thain outside folded the door shut, closing Ulvana in alone.

“I’ll have some of my thains escort her down, if you like,” Noreê said.

“They’re not your thains, Vocate,” Aloê said.

Noreê smiled and nodded: a mere detail to her. “Ommil,” she said to the thain on guard, “take a couple of the others and escort Ulvana down to the High Arbitrate in the city tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Vocate,” said the thain.

“What did you think of Ulvana?” Noreê asked as they turned away and walked into the street.

“Pitiable. But I didn’t pity her.”

“Yes. My long-dead father would have called her a real woman.”

“Oh? Why?”

Noreê shrugged, a gesture that reminded Aloê oddly of Morlock. “That is easier to know than to explain. She lives through her man; that is part of it. He is everything, and she is content to be nothing, if he only notices her. She is completely selfless.”

“I’d say she’s completely selfish.”

Noreê laughed. “You are contrary today, Vocate. How can she be selfish? She gave up everything for that man.”

“For a price. As long as she got what she wanted, nothing else mattered: Earno’s life; Oluma’s life; Denynê’s life—anyone else’s; her principles as a member of the Arbitrate; the safety of those who trusted in her; her independence and fortune, so proudly won over a century of work. She threw all that away to satisfy an urge.”

“You speak unkindly of love,” Noreê said, not as if she disapproved.

“I’m not talking about love at all. Naevros purchased her with a fantasy, the way he might have purchased a meat pie with money. He offered her the pretense of love, which was enough for her. For that she sacrificed everything, not for him.”

“Are you going to talk to him now?”

Aloê nodded.

“Perhaps I should ride with you,” Noreê suggested. “The presence of his two unattainable princesses might unnerve him.”

“What is a princess anyway?”

“A sort of female kinglet, I think. They have them in the unguarded lands. They are much sought after as mates, apparently, and people kill dragons and things to woo them.”

Aloê, who’d had occasion to kill a dragon herself, revolved this notion in her mind. “Odd,” she said. “Yes: let’s try to shake him up.”

They rode down to the city the next morning and arrived at Naevros’ house in the afternoon.

There was a cloud of watch-thains on the street outside Naevros’ little house. Aloê was surprised to see them there. Naevros had been released from the Well of Healing after swearing a self-binding oath to appear before the Graith when summoned. No guards were needed, but here they were.

Plus, they wore different badges, as if they belonged to different graiths. One group had green armbands; another sported red caps; a third wore purple leggings.

She rode Raudhfax through the milling crowd as if they weren’t there, causing a number to jump out of the way. She dismounted and strode toward the front door, ready to throttle anyone who hindered her.

She heard a timid voice say, “Your pardon, Vocate, but you are not allowed to enter.” She turned and prepared to leap at the speaker like a lioness taking down a deer . . . but he wasn’t speaking to her. A herd—no, three distinct herds of thain—were surrounding Noreê, who looked at them curiously with her dark blue eyes.

“Here, you,” Aloê said to them as a body, “get away from her.”

“I’m sorry, Vocate,” said a freckly fellow in purple leggings, “but our orders are that no one shall enter this domicile saving yourself.”

“Ours, too,” supplied a pimply youth with a green armband. “And ours!” chimed in a girl in a red cap, and in general all the cattle mooed the same song.

“Whoever may have given you those orders, and those badges of rank to go with them,” Aloê said, “you can’t suppose that their instructions are binding on us. Stand out of her way.”

“Sorry, Vocate. Orders.”

The herds lowed in unison: orders, orders, orders.

Aloê was about to lay a few of them on the ground using her songbow as a club when another voice spoke, breaking the spell: “Don’t trouble yourselves, vocates. I’ll come down to you.” It was Naevros, standing at the window above his front door.

Neither Aloê nor Noreê responded, but Naevros disappeared, and in a moment the door opened and Naevros stepped out of it.

The thains stood out of his way as if he were carrying a bowlful of plague-infested pus. He was not. He carried nothing: not a sword at his hip, not a cloak on his shoulders against the chill of the summer day. His clothes looked old and ill-matched; there were buttons missing from the shirt and threadbare patches on the trousers. His reattached left hand hung from the end of his arm, barely moving. It had a slightly bluish look to it. He did not offer it, or the other hand, to Aloê or Naevros, but he did acknowledge their presence with a nod and a glance of his green eyes, which is more than he did for the thains.

“Let’s go down to the Benches and have a bite to eat,” he suggested. “I don’t suppose I’ll have many more chances to eat there, one way or the other.”

They agreed and they all walked together down the street to Naevros’ favorite cookshop.

“How’s Verch?” asked Aloê.

“Gone. Forever, this time,” Naevros said. “I fired him. I’d sell the house if I could find a buyer. I’ll need all the money I can get in the unguarded lands. Unless you plan to kill me.”

“You’ll have the option of exile, of course,” Aloê said.

“I’ll take it. Or did you imagine me drowning my sorrows in a pool of my own blood?”

Aloê noted the bitter bantering tone in his voice and chose to ignore it. “No,” she said frankly.

He winced and sighed. “Well, I suppose it’s too late to pretend now that I’m something other than I am.”

They sat in the garden, empty of other patrons as the blue chill of evening approached. Without looking at the server, a young woman with streaked hair who looked at him with sad, sympathetic eyes, Naevros ordered pork seared with cherries and thrummin on the side. Noreê had a plate of jeckfruit and grondil. Aloê ordered chicken and mushrooms, and they shared a carafe of the house wine.

“I suppose you’ve come to break down my resistance,” Naevros said, when they all had a glass. “You want to ask me questions, expecting no answers, just hoping to plant doubts that will soften the real examination on the Witness Stone. Is that it?”

“What if it is?” Aloê replied.

“If it is, to hell with it. Ask me your questions. I’ll answer. I’m not going to put on a defense. I did what I did, and I’ll pay for it without whining.”

Perhaps only a little whining, Aloê thought to herself. Naevros favored her with a green glance, and she wondered if he had understood her unspoken response. It repelled her, but their rapport was as strong as ever. Aloud she said, “I know what you did, and most if not all of your fellow conspirators. What I don’t understand is why you did it.”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“A simple reason, for a Guardian. I did it to maintain the Guard.”

She looked at him without speaking.

“No, really!” he insisted.

“You’ll have to put some more lines in the drawing, Naevros. I don’t see what you’re getting at. How did murdering Earno help maintain the Guard?”

“I don’t know all the details. But Lernaion and Bleys had a plan to save the Wardlands from the effects of the dying sun. Earno was planning to interfere with it, or they thought he was. So he had to be killed.”

“Why would you believe them?” Aloê asked.

Naevros seemed genuinely surprised. “Wouldn’t you?”

Aloê looked away instead of answering. She wondered if he had always been this stupid and she hadn’t noticed it, or whether something had happened to him. She marveled that she had ever felt torn between this clever, shallow, pretty man and ugly, powerful, crafty Morlock Ambrosius. She missed him very much at that moment, and there was a shrill, fearful quality to the feeling. She was worried that the loss was permanent, that he would never return from the journey he’d begun.