Beyond the Shadows
Page 28
“Fascinating,” Istariel said, her tone flat.
“Of course that ka’kari disappeared and has never resurfaced. I imagine it would have, if it were anything but a legend. There is much stronger evidence in support of the red ka’kari’s existence. Originally, it was given to Corvaer Blackwell—ironically enough, Lord Blackwell would henceforth be known as Corvaer the Red—and after he died during the Battle of Jaeran Flats, it was taken by a man named Malak Mok’mazi, Malak Firehands in our tongue, though obviously that translation doesn’t preserve the alliteration. Accounts from both sides claimed that he fought from within the conflagration that swept the plain and broke the Gurvani army. Again, after his death—apparently fire isn’t much good against poison—” Ariel barked a laugh, which Istariel didn’t share. “Uh hmm, well, it seems to have reappeared in various hands throughout history. Some of those had credible witnesses. Herddios, whom we trust for all sorts of other stories that have checked out, claims to have personally—”
“Did you learn anything new?” Istariel said, doing her best to feign interest. Limited interest.
Ariel licked her lips, her eyes flicking up to the ceiling as she thought. “I concluded that a review of all the currently available literature on the subject still left the most pertinent questions open. And most of the less pertinent ones as well.”
“So it took you two years to figure out that you weren’t going to figure anything out.” It was a graceless way to put it, but then, with Ariel, it paid to be blunt.
Ariel grimaced. “That’s why I was willing to go see about Jessie al’Gwaydin.”
And not because your Speaker asked you to. For a moment, Istariel was jealous of her oblivious older sister. Ariel was a rock and the waves of politics passed her with sound and fury and she didn’t even notice. She was a bore, but a useful one. Whenever Istariel had needed an expert opinion on the magical sides of dilemmas, Ariel could be loosed on the problem like a hound to scent. And she wouldn’t share her findings with anyone except the books she wrote and Istariel. All in all, Ariel was worth far more than the trouble she caused. But did she have to be so boring?
If Ariel had turned her brilliant mind to politics. . . . Well, Istariel had thought of that before, in her more paranoid moments. If Ariel had the inclination for such things, Ariel would be the Speaker and Istariel would probably be some farmer’s brood mare. The key to handling Ariel was understanding that she was a believer; not a believer in some god, but a believer in the Chantry. There was something endearingly naive in women who believed all that “Seraph’s handmaiden” tripe. It made them far easier to handle than the magae who believed only in themselves. Point in a direction, say “good of the Chantry,” and Ariel would do anything.
“Ariel, I’ve got a problem I need your help with. I know you’ve never accepted a tyro—”
“I’ll do it.”
“—but I want you to think about the good of the—What?”
“You want me to teach Viridiana Sovari so she’s protected until she can destroy Eris Buel and the Chattel. I’ll do it.”
Istariel’s heart jumped into her throat. So nakedly laid out, it was a plot whose discovery would bring down a Speaker. “Never say that!” she hissed. “Not ever. Not even here.”
Ariel cocked an eyebrow at her.
Istariel smoothed her dress. “She’s being initiated this evening?”
“As we speak. Apparently there are some difficulties. It’s been hours.”
Istariel frowned. “How Talented is this girl? Is she Eris Buel’s equal?”
“No,” Ariel said. “Not even close.”
Istariel cursed.
“You misunderstand. She surpasses Eris Buel in every way. Vi Sovari is more Talented than I am.”
Istariel’s eyes widened. Like most Sisters, she was loath to admit when others were stronger. She would have thought Ariel, being so accustomed to being stronger than everyone, would chafe at the idea at least a little.
“Ulyssandra will be more Talented still, given five years,” Ariel said.
“That’s great news. But I don’t have five years. I don’t have one. I need you to turn this Vi Sovari into something special by spring. The Chattel are arriving then as a show of strength to make their demands heard.” And maybe to bring down a speaker.
“You will make concessions,” Ariel said, not quite a question.
“They wish us to start a men’s school. Did I say wish? They demand. They demand recognition of their new ‘order’ and the attendant seats on the council, which would make them by far the most powerful order in the Chantry. By themselves they would have a majority in any vote that came to the floor. They demand a repeal of the marriage bans so they may marry magi. They demand a repeal of the Alitaeran Accords. The nations of Midcyru will have reason to fear that we wish to return to the Alkestian magocracy. These Chattel will unite the nations against us. We’re a bastion of light in a dark world, Ariel. Concessions I can countenance. Destruction I cannot.”
“What is it you want me to teach Vi?” Ariel asked. That was it; Istariel had her.
Istariel paused, stuck between discretion and wanting to make sure her dense sister did what needed to be done. “Like we do with every Sister, help Vi figure out what her strengths are, and train them.”
Ariel’s eyes widened and narrowed in a heartbeat. The girl was nearly a battle maja, and they both knew it. In fact, Ariel’s response was so swift, Istariel thought she might have suspected the order. Or maybe Ariel was just that smart.
Well, there it was, as much discretion and direction as Istariel could afford to give and still hope to retain her seat if any word of this came out. Istariel would have to keep her distance from Ariel and Vi, of course. Even Ariel would understand that . . . if she noticed. Now, to smooth things, to maintain the illusion.
“You are to be commended for bringing such great Talents into our fold, Sister Ariel. I don’t believe two recruits with such potential have been brought to the Chantry for perhaps fifty years.” She smiled. It was fifty years since she and Ariel had arrived.
“Longer, surely.”
“You deserve to be rewarded,” Istariel said, her smile freezing. “Is there anything I can get for your studies?” Ariel, of course, would say service was enough.
“Absolutely,” Ariel said.
By the time she left, Ariel had muscled Istariel into consenting to every item. Ariel hadn’t even had the grace to offer something she didn’t really want so Istariel could say no and claim some small victory for her pride.
Istariel sat back and looked at her hair in her mirror, wanting it to be perfect for her meeting with the Alitaeran emissary. At least her blonde hair was still beautiful. She had the other Sisters swearing it was magic that she could have a mane so glossy and thick and perfect. It wasn’t, but it always pleased her to hear the allegation.
Her mind cast back to Ariel’s statement that she should be fascinated by ugly Trace Arvag-whatever-her-name-was. Istariel frowned, the face in the mirror showing any number of unattractive lines on a dignified but quite plain face. If Ariel had a sense of humor, Istariel would suspect she were the butt of a very subtle joke.
“Of course that ka’kari disappeared and has never resurfaced. I imagine it would have, if it were anything but a legend. There is much stronger evidence in support of the red ka’kari’s existence. Originally, it was given to Corvaer Blackwell—ironically enough, Lord Blackwell would henceforth be known as Corvaer the Red—and after he died during the Battle of Jaeran Flats, it was taken by a man named Malak Mok’mazi, Malak Firehands in our tongue, though obviously that translation doesn’t preserve the alliteration. Accounts from both sides claimed that he fought from within the conflagration that swept the plain and broke the Gurvani army. Again, after his death—apparently fire isn’t much good against poison—” Ariel barked a laugh, which Istariel didn’t share. “Uh hmm, well, it seems to have reappeared in various hands throughout history. Some of those had credible witnesses. Herddios, whom we trust for all sorts of other stories that have checked out, claims to have personally—”
“Did you learn anything new?” Istariel said, doing her best to feign interest. Limited interest.
Ariel licked her lips, her eyes flicking up to the ceiling as she thought. “I concluded that a review of all the currently available literature on the subject still left the most pertinent questions open. And most of the less pertinent ones as well.”
“So it took you two years to figure out that you weren’t going to figure anything out.” It was a graceless way to put it, but then, with Ariel, it paid to be blunt.
Ariel grimaced. “That’s why I was willing to go see about Jessie al’Gwaydin.”
And not because your Speaker asked you to. For a moment, Istariel was jealous of her oblivious older sister. Ariel was a rock and the waves of politics passed her with sound and fury and she didn’t even notice. She was a bore, but a useful one. Whenever Istariel had needed an expert opinion on the magical sides of dilemmas, Ariel could be loosed on the problem like a hound to scent. And she wouldn’t share her findings with anyone except the books she wrote and Istariel. All in all, Ariel was worth far more than the trouble she caused. But did she have to be so boring?
If Ariel had turned her brilliant mind to politics. . . . Well, Istariel had thought of that before, in her more paranoid moments. If Ariel had the inclination for such things, Ariel would be the Speaker and Istariel would probably be some farmer’s brood mare. The key to handling Ariel was understanding that she was a believer; not a believer in some god, but a believer in the Chantry. There was something endearingly naive in women who believed all that “Seraph’s handmaiden” tripe. It made them far easier to handle than the magae who believed only in themselves. Point in a direction, say “good of the Chantry,” and Ariel would do anything.
“Ariel, I’ve got a problem I need your help with. I know you’ve never accepted a tyro—”
“I’ll do it.”
“—but I want you to think about the good of the—What?”
“You want me to teach Viridiana Sovari so she’s protected until she can destroy Eris Buel and the Chattel. I’ll do it.”
Istariel’s heart jumped into her throat. So nakedly laid out, it was a plot whose discovery would bring down a Speaker. “Never say that!” she hissed. “Not ever. Not even here.”
Ariel cocked an eyebrow at her.
Istariel smoothed her dress. “She’s being initiated this evening?”
“As we speak. Apparently there are some difficulties. It’s been hours.”
Istariel frowned. “How Talented is this girl? Is she Eris Buel’s equal?”
“No,” Ariel said. “Not even close.”
Istariel cursed.
“You misunderstand. She surpasses Eris Buel in every way. Vi Sovari is more Talented than I am.”
Istariel’s eyes widened. Like most Sisters, she was loath to admit when others were stronger. She would have thought Ariel, being so accustomed to being stronger than everyone, would chafe at the idea at least a little.
“Ulyssandra will be more Talented still, given five years,” Ariel said.
“That’s great news. But I don’t have five years. I don’t have one. I need you to turn this Vi Sovari into something special by spring. The Chattel are arriving then as a show of strength to make their demands heard.” And maybe to bring down a speaker.
“You will make concessions,” Ariel said, not quite a question.
“They wish us to start a men’s school. Did I say wish? They demand. They demand recognition of their new ‘order’ and the attendant seats on the council, which would make them by far the most powerful order in the Chantry. By themselves they would have a majority in any vote that came to the floor. They demand a repeal of the marriage bans so they may marry magi. They demand a repeal of the Alitaeran Accords. The nations of Midcyru will have reason to fear that we wish to return to the Alkestian magocracy. These Chattel will unite the nations against us. We’re a bastion of light in a dark world, Ariel. Concessions I can countenance. Destruction I cannot.”
“What is it you want me to teach Vi?” Ariel asked. That was it; Istariel had her.
Istariel paused, stuck between discretion and wanting to make sure her dense sister did what needed to be done. “Like we do with every Sister, help Vi figure out what her strengths are, and train them.”
Ariel’s eyes widened and narrowed in a heartbeat. The girl was nearly a battle maja, and they both knew it. In fact, Ariel’s response was so swift, Istariel thought she might have suspected the order. Or maybe Ariel was just that smart.
Well, there it was, as much discretion and direction as Istariel could afford to give and still hope to retain her seat if any word of this came out. Istariel would have to keep her distance from Ariel and Vi, of course. Even Ariel would understand that . . . if she noticed. Now, to smooth things, to maintain the illusion.
“You are to be commended for bringing such great Talents into our fold, Sister Ariel. I don’t believe two recruits with such potential have been brought to the Chantry for perhaps fifty years.” She smiled. It was fifty years since she and Ariel had arrived.
“Longer, surely.”
“You deserve to be rewarded,” Istariel said, her smile freezing. “Is there anything I can get for your studies?” Ariel, of course, would say service was enough.
“Absolutely,” Ariel said.
By the time she left, Ariel had muscled Istariel into consenting to every item. Ariel hadn’t even had the grace to offer something she didn’t really want so Istariel could say no and claim some small victory for her pride.
Istariel sat back and looked at her hair in her mirror, wanting it to be perfect for her meeting with the Alitaeran emissary. At least her blonde hair was still beautiful. She had the other Sisters swearing it was magic that she could have a mane so glossy and thick and perfect. It wasn’t, but it always pleased her to hear the allegation.
Her mind cast back to Ariel’s statement that she should be fascinated by ugly Trace Arvag-whatever-her-name-was. Istariel frowned, the face in the mirror showing any number of unattractive lines on a dignified but quite plain face. If Ariel had a sense of humor, Istariel would suspect she were the butt of a very subtle joke.
