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  Ranai closed her eyes. “They’re all dead, except for me. I’d never have revealed myself to your mistress, but when I saw that she no longer had the bag with her, I feared the worst. You must forgive an old woman’s weakness. Perhaps if I’d spoken when you came to Ylani a few years back—”

  Iya took the clawed left hand in hers. “Never mind that. I know the oaths you swore. But we’re here now and you’ve seen it. What is it you have to tell us?”

  Ranai looked up then. “There can be only one Guardian for each secret, Iya. You’ve passed the burden to this boy. What I have to say, only he can hear.”

  “No, she only left it with me for safekeeping. Iya’s the true Guardian,” Arkoniel told her.

  “No. She passed it down.”

  “Then I give it back!”

  “You can’t. The Lightbearer guided her hand, whether she knew it or not. You are Guardian now, Arkoniel, and what I have to say can only be said to you.”

  Iya recalled the Afran Oracle’s cryptic words: This is a seed that must be watered with blood. But you see too far. And she thought of the vision she’d had that day, of a grand white palace filled with wizards, but seen from a distance, with Arkoniel looking out at her from a tower window.

  “She’s right, Arkoniel. You stay.” Unable to look at either of them, she hurried out.

  Sealed out by her own magic, she sagged against the wall and covered her face, letting the bitter tears come.

  Only then did the demon child’s cryptic words come back to haunt her.

  You shall not enter.

  Arkoniel stared after Iya in disbelief, then turned back to the ruined creature in the bed. The revulsion he’d felt the first time he’d seen her rushed back now.

  “Sit, please,” Ranai whispered. “What I tell you now is what was lost with Agazhar’s death. Iya has acted in ignorance. No fault of hers, but it must be made right. Swear to me, Arkoniel, as all Guardians before you have sworn, by hands, heart, and eyes, by the Light of Illior, and by the blood of Aura that runs in your veins, that you will take on the full mantle of guardianship, and that as Guardian, you will lock all I tell you away in your heart until you pass the burden to your successor. Protect these secrets with your life and allow no one who discovers them to live. No one, you understand me? Not friend or foe, wizard or plain-born, man, woman, or child. Give me your hands and swear. I’ll know if you lie.”

  “Secrecy and death. Is that all the Lightbearer will ever ask of me?”

  “Many things will be asked of you, Arkoniel, but none more sacred than this. Iya will understand your silence.”

  He’d seen the grief in Iya’s face and knew Ranai spoke the truth. “Very well.” He grasped Ranai’s hands and bowed his head. “I do swear, by hands, heart, and eyes, by the Light of Illior and by the blood of Aura in my veins, to carry out whatever duty is required of me as Guardian, and to reveal the secrets you give me to no one but my successor.”

  A blast of raw energy shot through him from their clasped hands, engulfing him. It was like being struck by lightning. It seemed impossible that Ranai’s wasted body could still contain such power, but when it passed, it left them both gasping.

  Ranai regarded him solemnly. “You are truly the Guardian now, more so than your mistress was, or even her master. You are the last of the six to carry that which must be hidden. All the rest have failed or laid their burden down.”

  “And you?”

  She raised a hand to her scarred cheek and grimaced. “This was the price I paid for my failure. But let me speak, for my strength is going.

  “The greatest wizard of the Second Orëska was Master Reynes of Wyvernus. It was he who rallied the wizards of Skala to fight under Queen Ghërilain’s banner, and he who led those who finally defeated the Vatharna. You understand the word?”

  Arkoniel nodded. “It’s Plenimaran for ‘the chosen one.’ ”

  “The chosen one.” The old woman’s eyes were closed now, and Arkoniel had to lean closer to hear her. “The Vatharna was a great general, chosen by the necromancers to take on the form of Seriamaius.”

  She still held his right hand, but he made a warding sign with his left. Even priests hesitated to speak the name of the necromancer’s god aloud. “How could such a thing be done?”

  “They forged a helm and the one who wore it, the Vatharna, became an earthly vessel for the god. It did not happen at once, thank the Four, but gradually, though even the initial guise was terrible enough.

  “The helm was completed and their general put it on. Reynes found him only just in time. Hundreds of wizards and warriors were killed in that battle, but the helm was captured. Reynes and the most powerful wizards still alive dismantled it somehow. But before they could do more, the Plenimarans attacked again. Only Reynes escaped, and with only six of the pieces. He never revealed how many there were in all. He put a glamour on those he had, wrapped them as yours is wrapped, and placed them in a darkened tent. Then he chose six of us—wizards who’d taken no part in the other ceremonies—and sent us in one at a time. We were to take the first bundle our hand found in the darkness, then depart alone, unseen. No matter what the cost, the pieces were to be scattered and hidden. Not even Reynes would know where they were.”

  She coughed weakly and Arkoniel held a cup of water to her lips. “So they couldn’t put it back together?”

  “Yes. Reynes was very careful, not trusting even himself to know the full truth. None of us had witnessed the ritual of dissolution, or the true form of what we carried. None of us knew what the others had, or where they went.”

  “So Agazhar was one of the original Guardians?”

  “No. He wasn’t powerful enough to be considered. Hyradin was the first of your line. He and Agazhar came to be friends later on, but Agazhar knew nothing of the burden he carried. It was only by chance that he was with Hyradin when the Plenimarans found him. Mortally wounded, Hyradin gave Agazhar the bundle and held off the enemy long enough for him to escape. Years later when he and I met again, I saw what he carried and knew Hyradin must be dead.”

  “And all the other pieces were lost?”

  “Mine was, and two others that I know of. Hyradin’s you carry. But one of us returned, saying she’d accomplished her purpose. The sixth was never heard of again. As far as I know, I’m the only one who failed and lived. It was years before I healed, and longer before I learned of Hyradin’s fate. By rights Agazhar should have killed me and I told him so, but he wouldn’t, saying I was a Guardian still. As far as I know, yours is the only fragment yet in Skala. I told Agazhar it should be hidden somewhere secure, but he thought he could better protect it by keeping it with him.” She fixed Arkoniel with her good eye. “He was wrong. It must be hidden somewhere it cannot be lost or stolen. Tell Iya that much, at least. I’ve had visions of fire and death since we last met, and of the girl who is hidden.”

  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.”

  Chapter 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.

  “Indeed, you are the artist. Forgive my doubt, but I seldom see such skill in a Tírfaie of your age.”

  “You think they’re good?”

  The ’faie picked up the horse charm. “This is very nice. You wisely kept the lines simple, suggesting detail rather than cluttering the little body up with it. One can feel the beast’s vitality in the stretch of the neck and the way you’ve positioned the legs, as if it is running. Lesser artisans would leave the legs straight, like a cow’s. Yes, it is a fine little piece. But this one!” He picked up the brooch and cradled it in the hollow of his palm. “This shows more than skill. You were sad when you made this. Homesick, perhaps?”

  Tobin nodded, speechless.

  Tyral took Tobin’s right hand and examined the fingers and palm the same way he’d looked at the brooch. “You train to be a warrior, but you were born to be an artist, a maker of things. Do they train you for that as well, up there on the hill?”

  “No, it’s just something I do. My mother made things, too.”

  “She gave you a great gift, then, Prince Tobin. One perhaps you have not been taught to value as you should. The Lightbearer has put skill in these rough young hands of yours.” He sat back and sighed. “Your family is renowned for their prowess in battle, but I will tell you a true thing. With such hands as these, you will always be happier creating than you ever will be dest
roying. I am not flattering you or currying favor when I say that if you were a common boy rather than a prince, I would invite you to work here with me. I’ve never said that to any Tírfaie, either.”

  Tobin looked around at the workbenches, with their rouge stones, crucibles, and racks of scarred mallets, tiny hammers, dies, and files.

  Tyral smiled sadly, reading the longing in his eyes. “We do not choose our births, do we? It would not be seemly for a prince of Skala to become a common craftsman. But you will find ways, I think. Come see me whenever you like and I will give you what help I can.”

  The jeweler’s words stayed with Tobin for a long time afterward. It was true that he couldn’t sell his work like a common craftsman, but he could keep on as he had, making gifts. He made charms and cloak pins decorated with animal heads and gems for his friends. Nikides commissioned an emerald ring for his grandfather’s birthday and Hylus was so pleased with it he was never seen without it again. Word spread and soon commissions were coming in from other nobles, who brought him gold and gems to work with. Apparently, as Ki observed, Tobin could work for his own kind.

  When Porion allowed them the occasional day off, Korin took the younger boys around to his new favorite haunts: taverns where pretty girls in low-cut bodices were quick to sit on the older boys’ laps and to pet and coo over the younger ones. Actress and actors welcomed them backstage at the finest theaters, and merchants in the richer districts always seemed to have some special items held back just for them.

  Now and then—usually when Korin had been drinking, as Ki was quick to note—he even brought the younger ones along on his nocturnal rambles. This required giving Master Porion the slip, but that was part of the fun. On frosty moonlit nights they played catch-me through the crooked streets, then headed down to some of the meanest waterfront neighborhoods. Even in the dead of winter these streets stank of shit and dead dogs, and the wine in the filthy taverns was vile. Yet Korin seemed happier here than anywhere else, bawling drunkenly along with raw-throated minstrels or elbowing in beside sailors, dock-hands, and less savory fellows to watch a street fight or a bear baiting.