Revelation by Carol Berg Page B

long questioning, he admitted that the only demon manifestation that had appeared at his challenge was a golden-haired woman of dazzling beauty and great good humor. She had teased him and danced with him under a glorious moon. According to the journal, Pendyrral had never fought again.
    Galadon, curious at the strange story, had waited until the Searcher and the Comforter had come home to Ezzaria, and inquired after the victim. The Searcher was disturbed and said there must have been a mistake in their testing. The woman—the victim—was considered a generous heroine in her town. It had been discovered that her husband had been stealing boys from nearby villages and putting them to work in his silver mines. The wife had been sneaking the children away one by one and returning them to their families. Her husband could not accuse her publicly, as it would reveal his own crime, so he had proclaimed her mad.
     
    “Pendyrral was dead before I went into training,” I said. “But perhaps the Searcher or even the Aife is still alive. If I could talk to one of them . . .”
    Catrin shook her head.
    “What of the Comforter?”
    She sighed ruefully. “Lost in the Derzhi war. There’s no one left who could tell you anything, except for one scholar who spent a goodly time investigating the occurrence.”
    “Well, I’ll talk to that one, then.”
    “I don’t think that’s possible.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s Balthar.”
    My soul shriveled at the name. Balthar the renegade. Balthar the traitor. Balthar who had created the soul-destroying rites the Derzhi used to strip Ezzarian slaves of melydda. I still woke suffocating from nightmares of my three days buried in Balthar’s coffin. I shook my head. “No. Not even for this could I breathe the same air as that man.”
    “I’ll keep looking. See if there are any more stories.”
     
    Two more days Catrin stayed, dosing me with her medicines and trying to unravel the meaning of my fears. But once my cough was gone and I had promised to take better care of myself, she packed up her blankets and bundles, ready to go home to her husband and her students. I cooked her a farewell pot of rabbit stew as proof that I would not starve without her care.
    Fiona had not participated in any of our discussions of demons or history. As she had done since coming to the tower—since I had known her—she wore her hostility like a second skin. Yet she was the nearest thing I had to a witness. I still had no idea what she had experienced during my encounter with the strange demon. As Catrin and I pondered philosophy yet again, she sat reading a small shabby book and eating her portion of the day’s feast. When the conversation lagged, I broached the subject. “I once asked you to think about that day’s weaving,” I said, knowing full well she had been listening. “I’d be interested in your interpretation of our experience. Would you tell me about it?”
    I had tried to ask in a civil tone, but she slammed her wooden bowl to the floor of broken stone, then jumped to her feet as if I’d poked her with a dagger. “It was a demon. Demons bring corruption and madness and death, and I am sworn to aid a Warden in killing them or sending them back where they belong. I will not discuss this with a madman.” She stormed out of the tower into the sunny afternoon.
    As the last echoes of her ill humor faded, I demolished the remainder of my stew, watching Catrin scrub out the bronze cooking pot with sand. “I don’t suppose you’d tell me what she said to the Council.”
    “I cannot. We’re sworn to privacy, as you well know.”
    “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
    “Well, I’m glad she’s gone for a bit,” said Catrin abruptly, setting the pot aside. “There’s another matter I need to speak to you about before I go. A more personal one. Though I was commanded not, it must be said.”
    For five days I had been waiting for it. “Ysanne?” I doubted my wife had sent any