A Parliament of Owls Read online

  They went on. Owl forced himself to concentrate on his surroundings. The footing underneath turned from flagstone to gravel and briefly, he heard the plash of a fountain. They were, he realized, making their way into the heart of the gardens; when he found himself on turf, he understood: the Ythande Councilor had taken him into the grassy avenue known as the Statue Walk. For a sighted person, it would afford a long, clear vista so that—if one stayed to the center and kept voices low—it might be possible to elude any sneaks or listeners.

  Lady Khycalle stopped walking. "Your bodyguard can tell you, Lord Owl, that we are alone."

  "Yes," Lynx confirmed, though Owl could hear the unease underlying her tone. "We are in a wide space with no cover close enough to hide a listener."

  "Fine," Owl said tightly. "So why are we here? What did you want to tell me?"

  The Ythande Councilor did not immediately reply, and Owl waited, tense and angry, in his private, listening darkness. When still she was silent, he focused on probing the barrier to his mind voice. He touched something and there was the flare of a mental image: a woman with whorls of tattoo on her face, storm-colored inscrutable eyes, and a kestrel riding her shoulder. He sent his mind voice like a sharp burst against the place the image had come from—Lynx! —but there was no reply. A second image burned his inner sight: the youth/woman dressed in shades of green holding a feathered dart in one hand. He followed that image back to its source, and instead of pushing against the barrier, he explored it. Like a mesh net, pushing or struggling tightened it, but by slowly working into it, he could unravel pieces of it. Suddenly, he grasped the structure of the constraining energy, and with a flex of mental muscle, he dismantled it. The kestrel screamed and Lady Khycalle caught her breath.

  "So. You are skilled and I am not very strong," she said. "I apologize for testing you, but I had to know to how strong a branch I was trusting my weight."

  "What did you want to tell me?" Owl repeated.

  "I know who it was, who tried to murder you."

  "What are you talking about?" Owl asked evenly, remembering that the Emperor had given orders that the murder attempt be kept secret.

  "The one who poisoned you with thekheth and haceth. I know who it was."

  An image flared in his mind: the youth in the act of shifting to woman, a strange smile in his—then her—cool eyes. "Do you? How?"

  "He boasted to me of it, when he thought you would die. His name is Hassyth—sometimes Hassythe, when he has changed to woman. He is an Adept of the Bone King." She shot a bright glance at Lynx. "Of the Xhi'a'ieffth."

  "Why would he boast to you, Lady Khycalle?"

  "The Xhi'a'ieffth stole a part of their power from the lore of my people; and Hassyth means, I think, to rule in the forest."

  "But," Lynx said softly, "the voice of Owl's assailant sounded like that of one of the Queen's ladies, a woman named Klarhynne Dhenykhare. Can this Hassyth do that, borrow someone's shape?"

  "Yes—or steal it. It is likely, I think, that the real Klarhynne Dhenykhare is dead, and that Hassythe has stolen her likeness. Even for such as Hassyth—who is both old and strong—it is impossible for an Adept to assume the shape of someone who has not given consent. Consent, however, need not be gained honestly."

  Her words spawned a shoal of images: a young, plain woman in Dhenykhare colors smiling into the face of the beautiful youth; a goblet of red wine, spilled like blood on a cloth of creamy linen; the kestrel bating, its eyes gold and wild; a chain of office spinning in the light; a man's hand wearing the black and silver ring, holding a whip; a guttersnipe child turning at bay, terror in his eyes; men setting axes to a huge oak; Rhydev Azhere with his young lover. "Why are you telling us this?" Owl asked, struggling free of the visions.

  "I need your help," she replied. "Hassyth and his allies threaten me: they undermine my power; they suborn and kill my loyal people; and those who have no strong convictions, no binding allegiances, they frighten to their side. But it is not only the Forest they unsettle: they threaten you and the Emperor—and the so-fragile peace of the realm. Hassyth intends to make use of strife to further his ends; and others seek to make use of his power to further theirs. And you, and I, and the Emperor, and the Ghytteve Councilor, and the Kalledanni Bard, and others I cannot see—we stand at the crossroads of their intentions and seek to block their path. We are worse than witless if we do not stand back to back and guard all ways. Tell me Lord Owl: do you believe the Admiral's death was fickle chance—or treachery?"

  "I believe that he was murdered."

  "As do I. And Adythe Dhenykhare's death was a sacrifice to the Bone King, though it was her own hand that wielded the knife. The threat is real, Lord Owl; in this endless, vicious striving for mastery, they seek to make use of each other, make use of whatever tool or weapon comes to hand."

  "As you seek to make use of my strength to bolster yours?" he asked.

  "If you like—though I would rather say we can make cause together."

  "'Common cause,'" Owl corrected softly. "But isn't that what this Hassyth tells his—tools?"

  "Yes. Or even prettier lies. But I would rather cut out my tongue, Owl Ghytteve, than utter falsehoods; and Hassyth has no such restraints."

  "That," Owl remarked softly and very gently, "is easily said." He heard Lynx draw a sharp breath, and the kestrel bated again.

  The Ythande Councilor gripped Owl's chin and turned his face toward hers. "And you—a Seer, as they say—you cannot recognize the truth in my words?" Though her voice was soft, he could hear the banked anger in it.

  "I do not always trust my ears. Are you angry because I wrong you, or because I have not risen easily to your bait? Or—" he added, "both?"

  Inexplicably, she laughed. And with a swift, sudden gesture she pressed her lips against his in a fierce kiss before she disengaged herself and sprang away. "I will talk with you again, Lord Owl," she said as she moved away into the dark garden.

  Owl wiped his mouth. What did that mean, I wonder?

  Perhaps she wished to indicate she had forgiven you for your offensive comment.

  Owl smiled faintly. Would you forgive me so easily?

  It would depend, I suppose, upon how badly I needed your help. She put his hand on her arm and said, aloud. "Shall I take you back to Cithanekh?"

  "Yes—though we'll likely be waylaid before we reach him."

  "Attacked?" Her voice sharpened. "You think?"

  "No. It's a manner of speaking. I mean only that I expect other courtiers will attempt to engage me in conversation."

  They retraced their steps to the more populous regions of the garden where courtiers, like a chatter of flitting song sparrows, circled in to introduce themselves to Owl. He felt Lynx tense beside him, and knew she was watching for weapons. A lady seized his hand and pressed it, and the emblem of House Glakhyre spun through his mind.

  "I met you in the Queen's garden, Lord Owl, but you didn't tell my fortune. I'm Zhylande Glakhyre."

  Others pushed in, women and men, taking his hand, telling him their names. Images—House emblems, faces, tag ends and random scraps of an incomprehensible larger pattern—swirled through his brain. He could feel Lynx's tension building as she stood beside him. A man's hand touched his forearm and the searing jolt of vision chased all the scraps away. He caught the man's wrist.

  "Rhydev Azhere," he said softly.

  There was laughter and applause. "Oh, very good!" Zhylande Glakhyre cried delightedly. "You've won me five Royals, Lord Owl."

  "Surely it was rash of you to bet against my skill, Lord Rhydev," Owl said.

  "I don't think so," Rhydev murmured. "It was hardly—mmm—an excessive wager. And it's always—mmm—amusing to test one's mettle against another. Welcome back to Court, Owl Ghytteve. I have waited a long time for your return."

  He released the Seer's arm and with a bow Owl couldn't see moved off into the shadowy garden. Get me back to Cithanekh, he thought to Lynx, and she eased him through the tangle of courtiers.


  They found Cithanekh seated on a stone bench in a little alcove of shrubbery. Owl sat beside him while Lynx took a place at the end of the bench opposite Cezhar. "Did you learn anything?" the young lord asked.

  An image flashed across Owl's inner sight: a sneak in the bushes. "Not much. Actually, I think the stalking goat has had enough of an airing. Can we go, or are there people you still need to see?"

  Cithanekh stood and helped Owl up. "We can go," he said. They made their way out of the gardens, hearing the silence and sensing the speculation they left in their wake.

  Chapter Eleven—Sorting Fragments

  When Owl and Cithanekh arrived back at the Ghytteve apartments, Yrhenne was waiting at the door. "Arre is here," she greeted them. "I told her you were in the garden, but she said she'd wait for you here. She's in the library."

  They found Arre seated at the khacce table, toying idly with the intricately carved pieces. She looked up as they entered and set the Singer back on the board.

  "I thought we might find you in the garden this evening," Owl said by way of greeting.

  "Rubbing Rhydev Azhere's nose in his failure? No. I'm surprised you were stirring that hornets' nest. Did you learn anything useful—or just get stung?"

  "He was there, Rhydev," Owl said. "He startled me into identifying him. It was probably stupid to give him a demonstration of the value of my Kellande School training, but it's too late now."

  "Aren't you going to tell us about your conversation with the Ythande Councilor, Owl?" Cithanekh asked.

  He shrugged, a flicker of mischief twitching on his lips. "I insulted her and she kissed me. Is that what you wanted to know?"

  "I beg your pardon," Cithanekh said in a tone completely stripped of betraying emotion. "I didn't perfectly understand what you said."

  Arre stared at Cithanekh for an instant, then she laughed and whistled. "You've been practicing, Cithanekh. That's almost as good as Kheth's Uniflected Polite Query. But come on, Owl: give."

  They listened attentively while Owl described the events in the garden, Lynx adding corroborative visual detail. When he was done, there was a brief, considering silence.

  "Do you trust her?" Cithanekh asked at last. "Could this Hassyth be the man with the black signet, do you think?"

  Owl shrugged. "Maybe. I've never seen the face that goes with the ring. But I do think I've seen this Hassythe—or Hassyth. Anyway, I've seen—" He broke off as his Gift seized him. It was not an inundating sea of images, this time, but one: the beautiful youth, caught in the shift between male and female. Owl clung to the image, holding the paradoxical profile still in his mind, as he tried to glean its significance. The ambiguity of the face stirred a memory; he held his breath, hoping the thought would come to the surface. Then, the enigmatic face turned in his mind, as though it were facing Owl; and a strange, almost challenging smile brushed the mouth before the features completed their change to woman's. The image faded as Cithanekh touched Owl's arm gently.

  "Owl? Are you all right?"

  The Seer sighed. "My visions keep showing me a beautiful youth—who changes to a woman. I think it must be this enemy Lady Khycalle spoke of."

  "What does he look like?" Cithanekh asked. "Whose colors does he wear?"

  "He—she—usually wears black: slim; dark hair; gray eyes with a shading of blue in them. He's more beautiful as a man than a woman; the woman's features, though regular enough, are too austere for feminine loveliness. I think as a man, he would be memorable, but not so as a woman."

  "Long hair? Curly or straight?" Cithanekh pressed.

  "Long, very thick and straight: like a fall of black silk; below his shoulders. I've seen it both tied back and loose, and for the woman, pinned up in the Court ladies' style."

  Cithanekh sighed. "Why can't it ever be easy: blue and silver livery and the Azhere's emblem branded on his forehead?"

  Owl managed a crooked smile. "The wise gods wouldn't find that entertaining enough. Truthfully, Cithanekh, if it were that obvious, I would suspect a trap." He saw again, in his mind's eye, the youth/woman's almost challenging smile. "It's odd: just then, I felt almost as though he—she—is aware of me, that she—he—knows my mind."

  Lynx lifted her head, like a hunter scenting prey. Cithanekh's raised eyebrow and Arre's encouraging gesture invited her to elucidate. "They are said to be great Adepts at the mindwork, Owl. You should be careful."

  "Careful," he repeated bitterly. "I know. But how can I guard myself against them? It's like trying not to think about something—futile and exhausting."

  Cithanekh squeezed his arm reassuringly. "We're always doing that to you, all of us: saying 'Be careful' and 'Guard yourself.' I know you need to take risks, Owl; I know nothing is safe in this game of guesses and intrigue. But we'll all help you: Lynx, Arre, Cezhar and the rest of my staff, me; so don't keep things to yourself. That's all any of us asks."

  Owl covered Cithanekh's hand with his. "It's hard, sorting the kernels from the chaff. It goes against my training—and inclinations—to burden you with the unconnected fragments with which my Gift surrounds me. But if you can force yourself to set me free to risk everything for all of us, I suppose the least I can do is share my questions as well as my convictions." He sighed. "The hardest thing for me is the faces I don't recognize; my visions give me faces, but I'm blind; I can't recognize them."

  "Pass the images to me," Lynx suggested, "mind to mind, and I will seek them out."

  "Or to me," Arre interjected "— or Kerigden. We might recognize them."

  Owl cursed softly in Kalledanni. "Sometimes," he said, "I am so stupid it appalls me." He touched the two women's minds and gave them pictures of the youth/woman and of Rhydev Azhere and his lover. He felt Arre's jolt of recognition.

  "That's Ancith," she said. "Rhydev's lover. Did you know he was at Court, Cithanekh?"

  "Rhydev Azhere has his lecherous paws on my brother?" Cithanekh growled. "I'll kill him."

  "Tempting," Arre said, "but ultimately impractical. Khethyran doesn't need his Ghytteve Councilor up on murder charges."

  "Damn," Owl said, remembering Cithanekh's prickly and resentful younger brother. "Ancith must be—what, now?—sixteen? I doubt he'll welcome our meddling."

  "I know. And if he can find a way to blame you for the ills of the world, Owl..." Cithanekh sighed.

  "Are there other faces, Owl?" Arre asked.

  In answer, he sent images swirling through their minds. After a moment Arre said, "A lot of these I don't know. I don't recognize the youth—or the woman he turns into—but the man with the whip is Dhyrakh, the Dhenykhare Duke and the man in mourning—" she passed the image back— "is Morekheth."

  As Arre's mind touched Owl's with the image, his gift seized him. He was aware of the strand of her mental contact as the visions gripped him: Morekheth, in stark mourning, toying with an object on a silver chain around his neck while he listened to a man in blue and silver livery—Azhere's colors—whose face Owl could not see; a cut crystal decanter filled with dark amber liquor, a woman's slender and beringed fingers closing on the stopper; hands on a lute—Arre's: he felt her recognition; scarred hands on Lynx's harp; Mouse—Amynne Ykhave—listening with horror to a ragged boy's expostulation; Lynx and Marhysse, back to back in an unequal fight with a number of rough-looking men; the Scholar King watching his daughters at play in the Royal Nursery, his expression gently wistful; the beautiful youth talking persuasively to a man with Arre's face—Torres, her brother: the master of the Kellande School; the crowned horse's skull, and a ring of worshipers; the flag of the Federated Amartan States; Bishop Anakher of the Horselord's Temple listening with the shadow of a complacent smile to a dissipated nobleman; Torres again, his eyes narrowed in concentration, nodding slightly to the beautiful youth—

  Arre pulled free, shaking Owl out of the tide. "I must warn him," she said. "He's not stupid—but he's singleminded, and thus vulnerable."

  "No!" Owl's inner vision surged with storm-lashed waves. "Not by ship
."

  "Of course by ship," she snapped. "How else to get there? It's an island."

  "Send a message," Owl insisted. "It's a lure, a trap."

  "He might not heed a message. If I go, I can make him listen."

  "Arre!" Owl gripped her wrist. "If you go, you won't come back."

  "If I don't go, and Torres falls prey to this Hassyth, how will I live with myself?"

  Wreckage and bodies washed up on a shingle beach; a kestrel dark against a brilliant sky. Owl caught his breath. "Send a message, Arre. Your warning's no good if you don't arrive." He sent the image of the kestrel back at her, felt her resistance waver.

  "That's Lady Khycalle's bird, no? Do you really think she can help?"

  "Surely it's worth asking," Owl said quietly. "Arre, I'm quite sure it would be a mistake for you to travel by sea. If this Hassythe can put images in my mind, if she—he—is aware of me.…" He broke off, shuddering. "Gods, I hate this."

  Cithanekh went to the desk and set out paper, a quill and ink. "Write a letter, Arre," he said crisply. "Something Torres will know you sent. I'll send Marhysse to the Ythande Councilor."

  When Khycalle Ynghorezh Ythande joined them, her kestrel on her shoulder, Arre had nearly finished her letter. As Cithanekh explained what they wanted the Ythande Councilor listened impassively. Finally, she nodded.

  "It is doubtless important," she said quietly, "not to give our enemy a foothold among the mages." She lifted the kestrel off her shoulder. "Give me your letter. My—how did you say, Owl? Familiar?—will take it."

  Arre folded the letter. Lady Khycalle slipped the paper into a small leather tube she then fixed to the bird's leg. "Show me where to find this Torres."

  It was Arre who gave her the images: the ancient stones of the Kellande School; the great open courtyard with the sundial in the center; Torres's face and the worked metal emblem he wore as a symbol of his office. The Ythande Councilor stroked the breast feathers of the bird on her fist, murmuring to it. Then she went to the open window and tossed the bird out. It gave one harsh cry and climbed the air, passing quickly out of view in the darkness.