Patricia Briggs - Raven's Strike

“I didn’t teach him how to see spirit,” said Hinnum. “I would have thought that was necessary to steal an Order.”

Seraph opened her eyes and saw the old wizard standing in front of them. He’d had come upon them without her hearing. Or Jes hearing—which meant he’d used magic of some sort. Tier didn’t bother opening his eyes.

Hinnum continued. “I spent all this morning and half the night—once I knew Tier’s music would appease the dead—trying to see how he could put what I taught him together and steal Orders from Travelers.”

Seraph noticed Hennea had opened her eyes, but she stayed where she was.

“I don’t see how he managed it,” Hinnum said. “I only knew because of what those fools had done to the Eagle. And because I helped the Raven to create the Orders in the first place. Willon is not a Raven, who can take the story of the Orders and know how it was done. At least he didn’t have access to a Raven’s power until after he’d already discovered how to steal the Orders. He’d have needed specifics. Rituals, words, and runes— something . I did not give them to him.”

“Hinnum,” said Hennea.

He turned to her and, to Seraph’s eyes, seemed to shrink a little. Then he caught himself, stood up straight, and looked her in the eyes. “I could not kill you, Raven. In all the centuries I paid my allegiance to you, there was only one thing you asked that I did not do. I could not do.”

Tier opened his eyes during Hinnum’s speech, looked up at Seraph, and raised an eyebrow. Centuries? He asked without words. Raven? Is Hennea the Raven? Is that what Hinnum is saying? Twenty years of marriage allowed her to read all of that in his face.

She nodded.

“What a story,” he mouthed. “I knew she was old.”

She smiled and touched her finger to her lips. “I’ll tell it to you later,” she mouthed back.

He smiled and closed his eyes again. She couldn’t tell if he was going to sleep.

“I don’t remember most of it very well even now,” Hennea told Hinnum, her face wearing its Raven mask. “Some things,” she said slowly, “are as clear as yesterday. I can see the Eagle’s face and hear his voice, but I don’t remember the Falcon or the Cormorant. When Seraph looked at Tier’s spirit, when she brought back the gem, I thought, ‘I remember how to do that.’ But there is much I ought to know that is simply a blank, fogged by time’s passage. I doubt I shall ever remember some of it.”

Hennea stood up and left the fire so she could face Hinnum. “But I do remember you . I remember you beside me during the black days before Colossae’s end. I remember finding peace in the knowledge that I would die when Colossae did—because you promised to kill me. And you always fulfilled your promises.”

Hinnum made a soft sound and turned away.

“For four and a half centuries, Hinnum, you were a man of your word.” She touched his shoulder, and he cringed under her hand. “And this beautiful morning, I cannot find it in me to be anything but grateful for the one time you were not.”

Tier sat up, yawned, rubbed his eyes, and looked at Hinnum. He rubbed his eyes again and looked some more.

“I see why you chose to stay here,” he said after an awkward moment.

Seraph looked, too, but Hinnum appeared no different to her than he originally had. Which, she realized, was odd, because he’d told her that something had happened to his body that kept him from leaving Colossae with the other wizards. He must still be using an illusion, even if it was his own body he wore that morning.

Hinnum lowered his eyebrows and looked down at Tier. “I love music,” he said heavily. “Last night you told the story of Shadow’s Fall with such power that I cried for the death of a man I never knew. Even so. Even so, Bards are the bane of my life. I am an illusionist, and Bards see truth.”

Tier shook his head. Whatever he saw must have been bad, because his reply was without the touch of humor he usually threw in. “My apologies, Hinnum. I won’t reveal what you want hidden.”

If Tier said he wouldn’t tell them what he had seen, he would not. If she was not to know what had happened to Hinnum, Seraph would rather talk about other, more important matters.

“If you did not teach him how to steal the Orders, how did he find out?” she asked.

“It was the Stalker,” said Tier.

“The Stalker?” said Hennea.

“Who else could it have been? I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

“The Stalker is not evil,” Hinnum said.

“I didn’t say that he was. You told us the Elder gods’ powers are constant, almost involuntary. If there are holes in the veil that keeps the Elder gods from destroying the world, then I believe it is possible for a wizard to feed off the Stalker’s power without the Stalker’s consent. You also told Seraph that the Stalker is caught behind the veil against his will.”

Hennea took a seat beside Tier. “The Weaver told me the world was too old, too brittle for the stresses He and His brother would bring to it. Their powers would destroy it.”

“The Weaver told me His brother did not care if the world died,” Hennea continued. “Death is a part of the Stalker’s power and is a natural process. But the Weaver loves His creation—so He found a way to bind them both and restrict Their powers so that His world could survive.”

She patted the ground beside her, and Hinnum sat down as she began speaking again.

“The substance of the veil is the power of both of the Elder gods: what else could restrain Them? If the Stalker had agreed, He and the Weaver could have re-created the veil Themselves after my consort died. Instead, the death of Colossae served as proxy for the power of the Stalker—taken from Him by force. The Weaver wove the other half of the veil Himself.”

“The Stalker wants free,” said Seraph.

“That’s what the Weaver told me on the night we decided that Colossae and her gods would die.”

“So why would…” Seraph’s voice faded off as she saw what Tier had seen yesterday. “The Stalker couldn’t stop the Shadowed from feeding off his power, so he might as well make use of him. Willon was an illusionist, angry at the limits of his magic. So the Stalker offered to show him how to steal the power, of the Travelers. Why didn’t he tell him of the Guardian Order?”

“A lot of the Ordered gems don’t work,” said Hennea slowly. “If the Elder god chose to show Willon how to steal the Orders, he would certainly do a better job of it.”

“No,” said Tier. “Because the Stalker doesn’t care if the Orders are useful or not. He just wants them bound to inert objects rather than Order Bearers. Because the Orders do serve a purpose.”

“They keep the balance,” Hinnum said. “Without the balance to anchor it, the veil will fail, and the Elder gods emerge.”

“Ah,” said Hennea thoughtfully, “If Willon wore one of each of the Orders, he could draw on the power of both of the Elder gods instead of just the Stalker. The Stalker ensures he never attains that goal by making certain the Shadowed cannot have all six. Many of the Ordered stones do not work—the Lark not at all so far as we know—and the Shadowed doesn’t know about the Guardian Order.”

“Clever people, those Colossaen,” said Toarsen, as they left the Owl’s temple.

It was later than it ought to have been, because they’d spent a couple of hours in the Merchant District, where the entrances to the shops had been curtains rather than doors. Most of the curtains left a space above the floor that they could slide under.

Some of the shops had been just like their counterparts in Taela, some had not. Phoran had been particularly struck by the mercantile that had fabrics the like of which he’d never seen before. There were brocades and velvets, but also some sort of shiny fabric with a luster like a silk, but it changed colors from gold to green, depending on what angle he viewed it from.