The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 19: The City of Music, Part 1

None of them rose early the next day. Ammas himself did not climb out of bed until well past nine. As he lit the lamp at his bedside he realized he didn't feel especially rested: his dreams had danced and roiled with collared she-wolves and fascinated hazel eyes. Silently he cursed Othma Sulivar for planting such foolish ideas in his head, wondering if she had meddled with his thoughts, but knowing she was not capable of such things. These came solely from his own wishes, and he wondered how long he had harbored them unknowingly. He spent nearly forty minutes drenching himself in the deliciously hot water of the baths down the hall, hoping futilely that the steaming jets would wash away these awful fancies.

A subdued group awaited him in the study, where the table had been laid with breakfast, including, he was gratified to see, a steaming pot of seretto tea. Barthim smiled faintly at him as he poured himself a cup. Every face was pale and drawn and thoughtful, none moreso than Denisius's. Unsure what could be troubling Lord Marhollow, Ammas instead turned his attention to Casimir, who was chewing halfheartedly on a chipolata. 

"What's the matter, Casimir?" he asked a little too heartily. "Didn't get a good night's sleep?"

His apprentice regarded him with something like mistrust, which startled Ammas into a greater wakefulness. "Not really," he said after a moment, setting aside the sausage and toying with a buttermilk biscuit, then abandoning this for a gulp of cider. Ammas frowned at the boy. Certainly he couldn't be troubled by how Othma had treated him personally. Shrugging, he turned to his own breakfast, supposing Casimir was unhappy with how the Doyenne had attacked Barthim.

"Bad dreams in this place," Vos said quietly. Of all of them he alone looked as if he had gotten more than a few hours' sleep. "I don't really believe in visions -- "

"I think you might before we're finished with this," Ammas said tartly.

Vos smiled a little. "Maybe. But there is something here. Something even older than your Doyenne, Ammas."

"This is an ancient place, Vos of Nythel." The Doyenne emerged from some unremarked alcove, perhaps having been watching them the whole time as they set to breakfast. A smile glittered in her good eye. "More ancient even than I, hard as that may be to believe, and many things linger here for a receptive mind. Will you be spending another night, Ammas? I would be pleased if you did, and I'm sure you've not had the opportunity to study in a true arcane library since the last time you were here."

Ammas rose with a thin smile. "I believe we have imposed on your hospitality enough, Othma. You have been very generous. I intend us to be in Vilais before midnight."

The Doyenne nodded. "As you like, Ammas. In that case I would speak to some of you before you leave. You and I have spoken enough, and I will say no more on the things we have debated." Her good eye lingered on him for a moment before she turned to Carala. "Ammas Mourthia has sworn himself to you, Carala Deyn. I don't expect any of your bloodline to understand that honor -- "

"I understand more than you give me credit for, Doyenne Sulivar," Carala cut in, her eyes flickering. Ammas remembered how close they were to Saya's full brightness, something Othma no doubt knew perfectly well. "And I respect Ammas more than you wish to admit."

Othma's smile deepened, her eye gleaming with satisfaction. "Good. Then when he fulfills his vow to you and you stand before your father with the wolf's blood cleansed from you, I trust you will remember the aid he gave you. And the aid I gave you. I should very much like to be able to poke my head above ground without fear of someone lopping it off to please the House of Deyn."

"I have no power over the decisions my father makes," Carala replied in a softer tone, "but I will be sure to tell him all that both of you have done for my sake. He is -- he is not without gratitude."

"We'll see," Othma replied, still grinning. Now she moved a little down the table with that shuffling gait. "Barthim of Siranesh."

Barthim looked up wordlessly, more chastened than Ammas could ever remember seeing him.

But Othma's voice was surprisingly gentle. "I will not apologize for the things I said to you last night. There are rifts between your faith and mine that are not my place or my will to heal. But I will trust Ammas's judgment. Fulfill your service to him, keep him and his apprentice safe, and Autumnsgrove will forever welcome you."

Barthim rose up and bowed respectfully. "This was my intention all along, good Doyenne. If I can redeem the Hethmar in your eyes, your scoring will have been worth it."

"You can't," Othma laughed. "That's too large a burden even for your shoulders, big fellow." There was a warmth in her eye now as she edged along the table until she was directly beside Casimir, who at a gesture rose from his chair so he could face her. "For you, Casimir of Munazyr, I have a gift. Your master will instruct you in its use, and if he deems it wise he will keep it safe for you until you are old enough to bear it. But you alone are here with no weapon, and that seems ill-advised to me. Has your master taught you of skymetal?" Eagerly Casimir nodded. "Then tell me what it is." She set aside her staff and clapped her hands at her belly in a gesture that irresistibly reminded Casimir of Ammas himself when he quizzed him.

"It's like iron, but harder, sharper, and it's easier to enchant," Casimir said, glancing at Ammas out of the corner of his eye. Ammas was only smiling, almost nostalgically. He knew better than to give his apprentice the answer, Casimir was sure, but he wasn't worried. This was one of the first things his master had taught him. "It's found in the great fiery rocks that fall from the sky sometimes, the ones the Travellers of Simori worship. They have a temple in Cavis Cove that has the largest one ever found; there are some people who think it killed the Dread Titans when it struck our world, long ago."

"Excellent!" Othma exclaimed. "And it's because of that affinity for enchantment, because of its purity that skymetal blades became the badge of the fellowship of cursewrights." 

With a slowness bordering on reverence, Othma Sulivar reached to her belt and untucked from it a sheathed dagger hidden beneath her cloak, very similar in fashion to Ammas's. The handle was plainer, the pommel a polished knob of metal rather than the jeweled device Ammas's bore, but to a knowing eye there was no mistaking it as anything but a cursewright's weapon. Othma half-unsheathed it, exposing the sinusoidal blade. It threw back the lamplight in gleams more gold than the blue of Ammas's dagger. 

"This was to be a gift to my Nelahn when he came of age. Even if he did not follow me into the cursewright's trade, a skymetal dagger is a frightfully useful weapon. If he had become a cursewright, he'd have borne it to the end of his days. If he had not, he would have passed it on to some worthy apprentice. As I do now."

Seating the blade back in its sheath, the Doyenne held the dagger out in both hands. Almost worshipfully Casimir took it from her, his eyes huge as he drank in its details.

"It is no toy, and it is much more than a simple knife," Othma said sternly. "Do not draw it until your master says you are ready for such things."

"I won't," Casimir whispered. "Thank you, Lady Doyenne."

"Keep it for now, Casimir," Ammas said. "I may have to take it from you when we're in Vilais. City guardsmen aren't generally fond of children with enchanted blades."

Othma cackled. "Give him enough time and this boy won't have to worry about any guardsman. As for the rest of you, I wish you well. Go and sing a song of the moon for me, Vos of Nythel. Someday I think you will hang up your sword and trade it in for a harp of your own."

Vos nodded with a faint smile. He had slept quite soundly, for the most part, save for some unnerving dreams of the Blackspur exploding and raining fire down on the plateau above. He was surprised to find Denisius looking only slightly less ill than he had when they'd emerged from the Munazyri tunnels. Lord Marhollow had claimed he was fine, but even now as they said their farewells he merely stared at the table as he ate his food, picking at the sausages and gravy desultorily.