urn. Was it your team that Mara saw killed? He shivered. And if you borrowed those books to investigate the urn, did Yevin borrow them for the same reason?
“Arandras? I said, perhaps I can say more once they’re back. If you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” Arandras said. “Yes. I’d appreciate that.” He took a breath. “Can you tell me why you chose those two books, specifically?”
“Simple, really. I asked the librarian for books about minor Valdori sects and sorcery, and these were the ones he suggested.” Narvi shrugged. “For all its other resources, the Library’s got barely anything worth looking at on sorcery. And the handful of decent books they do have never make it back to the shelves before someone else borrows them again. Any schoolhouse library on Kal Arna has a better collection — well, except us. Chogon’s sent us a few books to get us started, but we still have to go to Anstice for any serious research.”
Arandras nodded, only half listening as Narvi chattered on about the shortcomings of the Spyridon schoolhouse. If the Library’s books about sorcery were truly so few, Yevin may well have borrowed these two for reasons entirely unrelated to the urn. Except Arandras didn’t believe it. Tereisa had been kidnapped for ransom: a Valdori dagger Arandras had access to at the time. Her abductor had only killed her when Arandras, trusting the Quill to rescue her, had refused to hand it over. And now someone’s looking for this urn, and they’ve already killed some Quill to get it, and with Yevin’s help they’re going to… what? His train of thought ran out, and Arandras breathed a sigh of frustration. He was right, he was sure of it. But he needed more.
He closed the book and stood. “I should go,” he said, handing the books back to Narvi. “I’ve already taken more of your time than I intended.”
“It’s no hardship.” Narvi smiled, his gaze turning inward. “I still miss it, sometimes. You and me and Tereisa and the others, back there in Chogon. Before it all became…” He trailed off. “You know. Complicated.”
Before we knew better, Arandras thought. Some of us, anyway.
“Tell me what you learn,” Narvi said. “About the letter, I mean. If there’s anything any of us here can do to help, just say the word.”
There was no chance of Arandras doing any such thing. He’d gone to the Quill for help in Chogon, and their actions had shown him exactly where their interests lay. I believe you care, Narvi. But you don’t speak for the Quill.
In every way that matters, the Quill speaks for you.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
•
The god owned him.
Clade had given himself over to it, almost twenty years ago. At the time, of course, he’d had no idea what was happening, and when he finally discovered what he’d done the day he joined the Oculus, it was far too late. The god came and went as it pleased, watching through his eyes, listening through his ears. Sometimes it stayed only minutes before flitting away again. Sometimes it stayed for hours. Most days he wanted nothing more than for it to just leave him alone.
Today he stood in the open gallery atop the Oculus building, hands resting on the rough stone balustrade as he gazed out over the city and awaited the god’s arrival.
A narrow stone tower marked the position of the city chambers to the northwest. Behind it rose the spires of the Tri-God pantheon in a cascade of blue and scarlet, gold and emerald green, the myriad coloured tiles bright in the afternoon sun. The high roofs of the merchant guilds across the river stood apart to the north, almost in line with the wide thoroughfare that ran past the Oculus building’s door and, if one followed it far enough, all the way to Spyridon on the southern coast. Smoke and chanted prayer rose from the grounds behind the Kefiran dome across the road, the former drifting away on a breeze almost too faint to feel, the latter rising and
“Arandras? I said, perhaps I can say more once they’re back. If you’d like to know.”
“Thank you,” Arandras said. “Yes. I’d appreciate that.” He took a breath. “Can you tell me why you chose those two books, specifically?”
“Simple, really. I asked the librarian for books about minor Valdori sects and sorcery, and these were the ones he suggested.” Narvi shrugged. “For all its other resources, the Library’s got barely anything worth looking at on sorcery. And the handful of decent books they do have never make it back to the shelves before someone else borrows them again. Any schoolhouse library on Kal Arna has a better collection — well, except us. Chogon’s sent us a few books to get us started, but we still have to go to Anstice for any serious research.”
Arandras nodded, only half listening as Narvi chattered on about the shortcomings of the Spyridon schoolhouse. If the Library’s books about sorcery were truly so few, Yevin may well have borrowed these two for reasons entirely unrelated to the urn. Except Arandras didn’t believe it. Tereisa had been kidnapped for ransom: a Valdori dagger Arandras had access to at the time. Her abductor had only killed her when Arandras, trusting the Quill to rescue her, had refused to hand it over. And now someone’s looking for this urn, and they’ve already killed some Quill to get it, and with Yevin’s help they’re going to… what? His train of thought ran out, and Arandras breathed a sigh of frustration. He was right, he was sure of it. But he needed more.
He closed the book and stood. “I should go,” he said, handing the books back to Narvi. “I’ve already taken more of your time than I intended.”
“It’s no hardship.” Narvi smiled, his gaze turning inward. “I still miss it, sometimes. You and me and Tereisa and the others, back there in Chogon. Before it all became…” He trailed off. “You know. Complicated.”
Before we knew better, Arandras thought. Some of us, anyway.
“Tell me what you learn,” Narvi said. “About the letter, I mean. If there’s anything any of us here can do to help, just say the word.”
There was no chance of Arandras doing any such thing. He’d gone to the Quill for help in Chogon, and their actions had shown him exactly where their interests lay. I believe you care, Narvi. But you don’t speak for the Quill.
In every way that matters, the Quill speaks for you.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
•
The god owned him.
Clade had given himself over to it, almost twenty years ago. At the time, of course, he’d had no idea what was happening, and when he finally discovered what he’d done the day he joined the Oculus, it was far too late. The god came and went as it pleased, watching through his eyes, listening through his ears. Sometimes it stayed only minutes before flitting away again. Sometimes it stayed for hours. Most days he wanted nothing more than for it to just leave him alone.
Today he stood in the open gallery atop the Oculus building, hands resting on the rough stone balustrade as he gazed out over the city and awaited the god’s arrival.
A narrow stone tower marked the position of the city chambers to the northwest. Behind it rose the spires of the Tri-God pantheon in a cascade of blue and scarlet, gold and emerald green, the myriad coloured tiles bright in the afternoon sun. The high roofs of the merchant guilds across the river stood apart to the north, almost in line with the wide thoroughfare that ran past the Oculus building’s door and, if one followed it far enough, all the way to Spyridon on the southern coast. Smoke and chanted prayer rose from the grounds behind the Kefiran dome across the road, the former drifting away on a breeze almost too faint to feel, the latter rising and
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