Carol Berg - Son of Avonar

“Exactly so,” said Karon. “They couldn’t untangle politics and belief and superstition and sorcery. And so they had to destroy it all. Over the past four hundred and fifty years most of the J’Ettanne have been hunted down and killed, though I doubt three people in the world outside this room remember exactly why it’s done.”

“But where have you come from, then?” I said. “How have you managed to survive without being found out? There have been no… no sorcerer burnings… since I was a child.” The very words were as acid on my tongue.

“I’m getting to that.” With a grateful smile, Karon drained a glass of wine Julia had given him. Setting the empty glass on the mantelpiece, he continued. “Though most of the followers of the Open Hand were slaughtered right away, those of the Closed Hand held out for a few years in their stronghold. But they knew their days were numbered. With the hunt so virulent, they were sure to be discovered. So they decided to abandon the stronghold, building secret ways through the mountains and sending out a few families at a time to settle in remote places where they would not be known. These refugees carried with them two tenets: that the gifts of the J’Ettanne were for life and not destruction, and that no mind could be invaded without consent. At least a few survived and managed to escape detection for several centuries. Some prospered, particularly in one Vallorean city called Avonar. My ancestors were among them. As late as five years ago the Lord of Avonar, the Baron Mandille, was a J’Ettanne. He was my father…” His voice faded.

I caught my breath. “Avonar! Evard’s triumph. Did Evard know?”

Karon hesitated, glancing at me and then at Martin, who was perched on the back of Tennice’s and Tanager’s couch.

“He knew,” said my cousin in disgust. “I don’t know how, but somehow in the last days of the Vallorean War, King Gevron learned that sorcerers lived in Avonar and that they were the last. Gevron promised amnesty to every citizen of Avonar who returned to the city before midsummer’s day, proclaiming that he had decided to leave the place a free city because the lord of Avonar had tried to broker the peace between the Leirans and the Vallorean king. The war was over. They all went home. But instead of amnesty Gevron sent the Duke of Doncastre. When Evard sacked Avonar and slaughtered all who lived there, Karon was studying at the University, bound by his father’s command to keep his connection with Avonar secret.”

Martin paused for breath, and the four of us pelted him with questions, the most particular being how Martin had come to learn the truth about Karon before the rest of us.

“When I was in Yurevan two years ago,” Martin said, “I took a few days to visit a professor from the University whom I’ve known since my own student days. He introduced me to a young colleague who was collaborating with him on a cultural history of northern Valleor. Karon, of course. We enjoyed each other’s company immensely and went riding together several times over the course of the week.

“One day we came upon a young family with a newborn babe, the man and woman scarcely more than children themselves. They were starving, riddled with wasting fever, and had taken refuge in an abandoned charcoal-burner’s hut in the forest just beyond Ferrante’s land. The boy warned us off and, in his last despair, begged us to toss him a knife so he could put an end to his family’s misery.

“I would’ve done it, but our friend here said there was an alternative. He tried to shove me off with some twaddle about medical training and the risks of contagion, but being stubborn, as you all know, and damnably curious, I watched from concealment. And so I saw Karon do his little business with the three of them. Needless to say, he had to spend some time telling me all he told you tonight.”

Martin sighed. “We thought we were done with the incident, but didn’t the stupid young bastard ignore Karon’s requirement of silence and take his healthy wife and babe into town, telling everyone of the miracle that had come about. The fool thought he’d make his savior into a hero, but instead, at Ferrante’s house, we hear that a hunt is up for a sorcerer in the district. I managed to smuggle Karon back to Yurevan, meet him properly in different circumstances, and invite him here, never thinking I’d be so stupid as to put him back in the danger from which I had extracted him.”

Day 1, Year 1 in the reign of King Evard

By the time Martin had finished his tale, the sky was rosy and the birds twittering in the garden. Tomas would arrive by mid-morning, and the events of the night would make my departure no easier.

Despite his best efforts, Tanager fell asleep on the floor, while Julia and Martin went to the kitchen to hunt up something for us to eat. Martin had told his stewards to continue the servants’ holiday through the coming day. Tennice paced the library, grumbling under his breath and casting such mournful glances over his spectacles at Karon and me that we decided to escape to the garden. We walked for a while, but there was nothing to say and everything to say, and we could not even begin. Eventually we gave up trying and joined Martin and Julia in the kitchen.

Just as Martin pushed a knife into my hand and told me to slice the oranges piled in a copper bowl, Tennice burst through the door. “Martin, do you have a copy of the Westover Codex? Surely you do. Don’t tell me you don’t.”

The Earl of Gault was up to his elbows in buttered toast. “You’re going strange on us, Tennice. The Westover Codex at six in the morning? Here we’ve had a night such as friends seldom experience, and you’re ready to get back to your books.”

“No jest, Martin.”

Martin shrugged. “In the vault, then. Black leather case.”

Before too long a time had passed, Tennice’s head reappeared in the kitchen doorway. “Seri, would you come, please? I need to speak with you.”

Wiping my hands on a towel and yielding my sticky knife to Karon, I joined Tennice in the library. He was poring over a fragile parchment spread out on the library table, and when I came in, he whirled about, snapping a pen in his thin hands. I had never seen him so agitated.

“Do you love him, Seri?”

I was taken aback.

“Tell me honestly. Karon—do you love him?”

He was not asking lightly. “Yes. Yes, I do, but—”

“You’re not afraid?”

“Of Karon? No more than I’m afraid of you or Martin or the others.”

He nodded as if he had expected nothing else. “If, by taking a great risk, you could avoid what is to come with Evard, would you be willing?”

“I’d do almost anything.”

“I’ve found you a way.” He beckoned me to the table to look at his parchment. “Evard will likely be crowned this afternoon, no later than tomorrow. It’s already been two months since Gevron’s death. A thousand noble guests are getting restless at twiddling their thumbs here in Montevial, waiting for us to make up our mind who we’re going to crown, while their tenants are harvesting crops and their less honored neighbors are lusting over their unguarded fields and horses. And, most importantly, the fall campaign against Kerotea can’t begin until there’s a king. So I started thinking about how there’s no time for an extended celebration, only the necessary rituals—coronation rituals. And that reminded me of something I’d read.” Tennice never forgot anything he read, not even if it made no sense or had no relevance at the time. No one in all Martin’s circle had ever been able to catch him up. “You’d risk Evard’s wrath. He’s not a forgiving man, as you well know.”

The three from the kitchen appeared, carrying trays loaded with toast, jam, oranges, and tea. “What’s this about Evard’s wrath?” asked Martin.