her furious protests.
“No mementos for you, brat. This is your home now.”
“. . . until I lost it. What did you get, Timmon?”
The Ardeth opened the linen packet and showed them.
Gorbel peered at the contents. “A fire-cured finger and a cracked ring? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I except—I think—this is my father’s ring.”
“And his finger? If so, how did the Highlord get it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t guess. He said that it was my house’s business. ‘Do with it what you will.’ ”
Jame wasn’t sure that her brother had done a wise thing. She remembered her dream of Tori breaking Pereden’s neck and of the pyre at the Cataracts from which someone had taken what were surely these relics. Since Adric believed that he had found his living son in Timmon, he would presumably no longer continue his bone hunt and would hopefully resume control of his house. She heard again the Ardeth lord’s clear voice rising above the uproar over Kirien’s “unmasking”: “Be that as it may, we still have business to discuss.”
In everything not touching on Pereden, he seemed to be all right, although no doubt Dari would continue to press for his replacement. But if Adric or Timmon were ever to learn the truth . . .
“Huh,” said Gorbel. “You two have all the luck. All I got was this dumb chunk of glass.”
CHAPTER VI
History Lessons
Winter 110
I
Bars of light streamed through cracks in the shed’s walls, piercing the jars shelved from floor to ceiling. The air was thick with motes and the scent of crushed herbs. Half a dozen jars had fallen and smashed on the floor, mixing their contents with shards of glass.
What a mess, thought Kindrie.
He gingerly stepped through the debris and picked up a fragment of dried root, trying to guess what it was. His job at Mount Alban was to memorize the order of the containers. However, curiosity as a healer had also led him to learn as much as he could about the herbs themselves. Grayish brown and wrinkled outside, inside white and spongy . . . but it was the fragrance that gave him his clue: angelica.
And this straight, dark brown root with its bitter smell—black snake root, surely.
Alfalfa, feverfew, ginger . . .
There was a pattern, of course: all were good for rheumatism.
He collected every bit he could find, carefully picking out the glass, wincing as splinters pricked his fingers, and laid them out on the table. Now the jars. Some large pieces fit together easily but others had been reduced to a powder that had joined the dancing dust motes. It was impossible to do a complete job, however long he took, and the day was already waning toward dusk.
There. Five partial jars held together by his will, filled with as much of their contents as had survived. Now to return them to their rightful places on the shelves.
Oh, bother. None of the containers were labeled and all had moved to fill any gap. Push some aside here, more there . . .
“Well?” said a sharp voice. “Are you done yet?”
His hand jerked. The shelves trembled, ripe for another disaster, and grew transparent. Kindrie hastily slotted the last jar into place. As he withdrew from the soul-image, its real life counterpart took shape around him, complete with his elderly patient glowering at him across the table. He released Index’s claw of a hand.
“How do you feel?”
The old scrollsman flexed arthritic fingers.
“Better,” he said, almost with reluctance. “Not perfect, mind you, but better.”
“I’m glad.” Kindrie rolled his shoulders to release the tension in them and ruefully regarded his own stinging fingertips. Metaphoric splinters were worse that real ones; the nerves remembered them far longer. “It’s hard to replace what the years have taken away.”
“No cure for old age, eh? There should be. And for death.”
Kindrie sighed. If he had completed his training as a healer at the Priests’ College, would he be better now or warped beyond
“No mementos for you, brat. This is your home now.”
“. . . until I lost it. What did you get, Timmon?”
The Ardeth opened the linen packet and showed them.
Gorbel peered at the contents. “A fire-cured finger and a cracked ring? I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I except—I think—this is my father’s ring.”
“And his finger? If so, how did the Highlord get it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t guess. He said that it was my house’s business. ‘Do with it what you will.’ ”
Jame wasn’t sure that her brother had done a wise thing. She remembered her dream of Tori breaking Pereden’s neck and of the pyre at the Cataracts from which someone had taken what were surely these relics. Since Adric believed that he had found his living son in Timmon, he would presumably no longer continue his bone hunt and would hopefully resume control of his house. She heard again the Ardeth lord’s clear voice rising above the uproar over Kirien’s “unmasking”: “Be that as it may, we still have business to discuss.”
In everything not touching on Pereden, he seemed to be all right, although no doubt Dari would continue to press for his replacement. But if Adric or Timmon were ever to learn the truth . . .
“Huh,” said Gorbel. “You two have all the luck. All I got was this dumb chunk of glass.”
CHAPTER VI
History Lessons
Winter 110
I
Bars of light streamed through cracks in the shed’s walls, piercing the jars shelved from floor to ceiling. The air was thick with motes and the scent of crushed herbs. Half a dozen jars had fallen and smashed on the floor, mixing their contents with shards of glass.
What a mess, thought Kindrie.
He gingerly stepped through the debris and picked up a fragment of dried root, trying to guess what it was. His job at Mount Alban was to memorize the order of the containers. However, curiosity as a healer had also led him to learn as much as he could about the herbs themselves. Grayish brown and wrinkled outside, inside white and spongy . . . but it was the fragrance that gave him his clue: angelica.
And this straight, dark brown root with its bitter smell—black snake root, surely.
Alfalfa, feverfew, ginger . . .
There was a pattern, of course: all were good for rheumatism.
He collected every bit he could find, carefully picking out the glass, wincing as splinters pricked his fingers, and laid them out on the table. Now the jars. Some large pieces fit together easily but others had been reduced to a powder that had joined the dancing dust motes. It was impossible to do a complete job, however long he took, and the day was already waning toward dusk.
There. Five partial jars held together by his will, filled with as much of their contents as had survived. Now to return them to their rightful places on the shelves.
Oh, bother. None of the containers were labeled and all had moved to fill any gap. Push some aside here, more there . . .
“Well?” said a sharp voice. “Are you done yet?”
His hand jerked. The shelves trembled, ripe for another disaster, and grew transparent. Kindrie hastily slotted the last jar into place. As he withdrew from the soul-image, its real life counterpart took shape around him, complete with his elderly patient glowering at him across the table. He released Index’s claw of a hand.
“How do you feel?”
The old scrollsman flexed arthritic fingers.
“Better,” he said, almost with reluctance. “Not perfect, mind you, but better.”
“I’m glad.” Kindrie rolled his shoulders to release the tension in them and ruefully regarded his own stinging fingertips. Metaphoric splinters were worse that real ones; the nerves remembered them far longer. “It’s hard to replace what the years have taken away.”
“No cure for old age, eh? There should be. And for death.”
Kindrie sighed. If he had completed his training as a healer at the Priests’ College, would he be better now or warped beyond
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