And why had they done that? What would they get out of it?
Thinking even briefly of that question was like taking the bandage off a wound where blood poisoning had set in completely. There was nothing to find in any direction but putrescence.
If Zelen flubbed what came next, there would be no chance to discover how far the rot went or to heal whatever was left.
He sat upright in the chair and thought hard at himself:Nothing happened, you’re bored, you’re talking about the succession, you want wine and dinner. You want wine and dinner, nothing happened, you’re talking about the succession, and you’re bored.
By the time Gedomir came back in, Zelen had almost managed to make himself believe it.
“House not on fire, I hope,” he drawled.
“Hardly,” said Gedomir, in the same we-take-care-of-ourselves-better-than-that manner that had always irritated his brother.
Now Zelen just hoped he’d go on being superior. Superior might let him overlook enough.
* * *
“Do you know much about the wards Zelen put up?” Branwyn asked.
The morning had dragged into afternoon. Interesting as her book was, the urge to be taking action had crept back up after the exercises. She supposed talking magical theory could serve as a stopgap.
“Not a great deal,” Altien said. “Zelen mentioned that his ancestors had left belongings in the cellars here, and that a few of those had been warding disks.” He closed his notes and made a thoughtful purring noise. “He did mention a few more complicated ones that he hadn’t been sure how to activate. Do you believe you might know?”
“Maybe.” She’d never been a wizard, but the basic magical principles had been part of all Sentinels’ training. Branwyn had been interested enough to study more now and again. “It’s worth a look, at least, if you don’t think he’d object.”
“I doubt very much that you could do a great deal he’d object to,” said Altien, and went on before Branwyn could react in any way aside from an embarrassing blush that her bruises no longer camouflaged. “And he’s never been particularly sensitive about his family’s belongings. I’ll see if his servants will allow me access.”
Ten pages of poetry later, he returned with a small armful of metal and wood, and set it down on the table where Branwyn’s food had been.
“A few of these resemble the protections our mages use,” he said, “but not many, and not a great deal. Then again, it was never my area of expertise, and we have different symbols for the gods.”
“Sitha is a tower for you, not a spider, yes?” Branwyn picked up the first ward, a glyph formed of delicate silver links, and tried to remember what Vemigira had told her about waterfolk religion, as well as what she knew of magic. “This one might need to have a censer in the middle, though you’d have to ask an actual wizard what to put in it, or maybe a priest.”
“It’s true. We’re not overstocked with spiders, and our cousins”—he flared his tentacles indicatively—“spin no webs, so the metaphor’s less apt. And the sword is Talleita, not Alcerion, as it is for you. Neither flames nor tears have much meaning for us, you understand.”
“Underwater? Makes sense to me.” The next item was a wooden statue, with a hollow cup in front and the back curving up into a series of patterns. All were abstract, and none suggested any god to Branwyn. She suspected this one was meant to channel magical power directly. It probably needed a wizard to work, but it was hard to know for certain. That cup in front, for instance… With wine or blood, depending on the spell, a decently skilled amateur might manage some protection.
She picked it up, meaning to check if there was any residue of one substance or the other. An unevenness near the back caught at her fingers. “This could have been better maintained,” she said.
“It was thrown in a trunk with a number of others,” Altien confirmed. “I suppose the family wanted a good number of such things out of their way. Is it badly broken?”
“No,” she said slowly. Branwyn realized she wasn’t feeling splintered wood but a straight line, slightly raised. “I don’t think it’s broken at all. Pass me the fruit knife, please.”
An old catch was unlikely to be trapped, but one never knew, especially in this city, and Branwyn didn’t have Darya’s gift for ignoring poison. It was more frustrating springing it with the knife but less potentially deadly, so she was willing to take the time and bite her tongue when she wanted to swear. Altien closed his notes and watched.
The catch popped open at last. In the compartment beyond was a wad of old paper: a tightly wound scroll that had been folded in half before being jammed into the hidden niche.
“Old love letters?” Altien suggested. “It would seem an incongruous place, but any port in a storm, as the saying goes.”
“There’s a poetic sentiment about love chasing away demons,” Branwyn said. She smoothed out the paper. It wasn’t as old as she’d believed at first—this ward had been put away considerably after the storms had ended, likely in her own lifetime—but there were ragged places already, and the ink had blurred in spots. “But no, I don’t think so.”
Third month, second week, fifth day.Unusual appetites continue as expected. R. can no longer enter the ceremonial chamber, as her presence—or more likely the babe’s—disrupts the established magic there, and it takes hours to repair. Inconvenient, but the best evidence that she truly bears the Vessel of the Sundered Soul.
Health otherwise robust. No emotional upset: she is radiant, rather, in the knowledge of her Great Purpose.
“I don’t know what they were doing,” said Altiensarn, bending over to read the cramped script, “but I suspect that I wouldn’t like it.”
“No,” said Branwyn. “Anybody who uses capitals like that has nothing good in mind.”
