The Black Star (Book 3) (24 page)

"And neither are my friends," he finished. Behind him, Lew and Cee slipped from the brush.

"That's good." A monk took a step forward. Furry leggings showed beneath his cloak, thick with mud. "Would hate for our holiday to be spoiled by violence."

"What is it you're trying so hard to hide?"

"What is it you came all this way to find?"

"The Black Star." Dante moved forward. "Cellen."

"Oh." The monk lowered his gaze to the leaf-strewn ground. "That."

"How do I find it?"

A second monk stared Dante down. This man was much older, a hood draped over his bald head. "What do you want with it?"

"I don't know," Dante said.

"Bullshit."

"That depends on what it can do, doesn't it?"

The old monk smiled thinly. "What do you think?"

"One story says it was used to end a drought," Dante said. "Is it an amplifier? Or a pure source?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose it would mean the same thing in the end." He looked across the monks' faces and failed to find a clue to their mood. He wasn't going to be able to trick or buy the answers from them. His only chance to get the truth was to give them the same. "I believe that good comes from inside us, sparks arising in the hearts of individual men and women. But the most good comes from institutions. From collectives of individuals dedicated to nourishing, growing, and spreading that good beyond themselves. In this way, you can build something to outlast your brief life."

"Get to the point," the second monk said.

"A good institution is built over the course of generations. Each leader stands on the shoulders of the last, drawing on the strength of his people to climb a little higher." He paused. "But like Arawn's mill, all it takes is one crack to send it tumbling down. If a single leader has bad balance—poor judgment—he will fall. And his empire falls with him. Isn't that what's happening in Gask now? Eight hundred years to build, and over the course of a single year, the decisions of Moddegan and Cassinder broke it apart. Now Cassinder's dead and Moddegan clings to the splinters."

The monk's impatience had vanished, replaced by wary curiosity. Dante took a long breath and went on. "Given enough time, every well-meaning order will be brought down by an unbalanced leader. Good can never last; chaos always wins. It's inevitable." Dante drew a breath, then forced himself to finish. "Unless its leader never has to die."

In the silence, the only noises were the splash of falling drops and the hiss of wind in the trees.

"Everything must die," the old monk said. "It's the mandate of Arawn."

"Arawn doesn't," Dante said.

"Do you think it's good for a man to aspire to be as deathless as Arawn?"

"If Arawn wants me, he can take me."

The monks exchanged looks. The first one said something Dante couldn't catch. The older monk nodded and turned to Dante. "We don't know if it's an amplifier or a pure source. Either way, in your hands, it could likely do what you wish."

"Why does it manifest?" Dante said.

"We don't know that."

"Then how can I find it?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders high. "If we knew, perhaps we would be seeking it ourselves."

Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. "At least answer me this. If you ran away to hide this from me, why tell me now?"

"Because you're not the only one who'll be chasing it—and at least your motives aren't greed and hegemony."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Besides, we respect those who'll go through hell to attain the knowledge they seek."

"So Cellen is real," Dante said. "It has the power to do things no person could do on their own. Yet no one in the world knows a single thing about it?"

"Wrong," the old monk said. "No one in
this
world knows about it."

Dante laughed. "'This' world? Am I to travel to the underworld, then?"

"The underworld would be much easier to get to. Sadly for you, your path lies to the east."

"The Woduns?" Dante said. "We've already been there."

The monk shook his head. "Beyond the mountains—and into the forbidden lands on the other side."

12

"The answer came to me when I realized I was lousy at this," Blays said. "More accurately, it came to me when I cut myself and bled everywhere. The morbid ol' nether just loves blood, doesn't it? That's when I saw it—and understood that I was seeing it all along."

Minn frowned. "That might be too profound for me to understand."

"It's like when we ate the nat-root. At first I could only see it in life, where it was strongest, but after a while, I realized I could see it in the water, too. Turns out I can see it everywhere, root or no root. It's just so subtle I didn't know what I was looking at."

"You're right, you
are
lousy at this. And you're even worse at explaining it."

"You're not supposed to agree with me." Blays leaned an arm against the outside of the cave. "So what season's next? Winter? Or are the People of the Pocket unconstrained by our earthly perspective on the year's cycle?"

A smile dented the corners of her mouth. "Winter comes next here, too. But first I think it's time you came in from the cold."

As he puzzled over the apparent metaphor, she pulled back the curtain to the cave. Lukewarm air wafted forth, smelling of incense and cooked seafood.

Blays met her eyes. "You're sure your friends won't gaff me and throw me out to sea?"

"It's already been settled. No one wants to see you freeze to death."

"Now that you mention it, it would be nice to feel my fingers and toes again."

He stepped inside. A torchstone glowed from the wall, casting its unblinking light down a bare tunnel. Minn made an immediate right into a short passage that led to a single doorway. Thick drapes revealed a square room ten feet to a side.

She drew her finger across the air, creating a soft nethereal light. Blays squinted at it, trying to pick apart the energy within it.

"It's all yours," she said. "Just don't go any deeper into the tunnels."

A few shelves were sculpted into the walls. A thin mattress lay in the corner. Next to it was a low end table and a rack of candles. Glancing up, he could just make out a hole in the ceiling to vent smoke.

And there wasn't a speck of dust anywhere. "Did you make this just for me?"

"Don't let it go to your head. It took five minutes." She moved back to the entry. "Wait here. I'll get you some dinner."

"Is it soup time already? You know, just because you live next to saltwater doesn't mean you need to eat it for every meal."

She lit a candle and walked into the hall. While she was out, Blays moved around the room, eyeballing it. Not that there was anything to see; other than the mattress, the table, and the candles, there was nothing else there. He had no possessions besides his clothes, a sword, a knife, and the sundries in his pockets. And it felt good. Except for the "one sword" bit. He'd need to find a new one somewhere. Walking around with a single sword was like trying to get by with one shoe.

Minn returned with soup and a bowl of greenish mush—mulched grass stems. Seasoned by kelp shavings and green onions, judging by the taste. It was warm, though, and the room was an agreeable temperature. Other than fleeting moments in the afternoon when the sun was up and the wind was down, it was the first time he hadn't been chilly since fleeing from Setteven.

Minn sat on her heels and watched the candle flicker. "You're from Narashtovik, aren't you? What's it like these days?"

"Are you from there?"

"No, but I'd heard it's in something of a renaissance. I don't get to hear much of what goes on beyond the cliffs."

"I guess it is doing well," he said. "It was pretty grim when I showed up several years ago. Now, not so grim. Coincidence?"

"Wasn't there a war? Didn't that have any impact?"

"Oh, that thing?" Blays laughed. "I still can't believe we got duped into starting it. An all-powerful norren bow! The oldest trick in the book."

She regarded him. "You started it?"

"Well, I'd argue
they
started it.
We
weren't enslaving norren for decades. But in a very technical, wholly unintentional sense—yeah, it was totally our fault."

"Tell me about it. And the man who chased you here."

"Why?"

"Because you're my student," she said. "And I have the right to know who I'm teaching."

He couldn't argue with that. Well, he could, but it would be a churlish thing to do. Instead, he talked. About the mission that first brought them to Narashtovik to assassinate Samarand. About the refugees of her truncated war revitalizing the city. Of the long sequence of events leading to the Chainbreakers' War. About Dante and Lira, too.

Strangely, it had the feel of a confession. Stranger yet was the fact that, in hindsight, he wouldn't have changed a thing. Not entirely true: he would have gone outside and warned Lira to step to the side of the gaping chasm that had claimed her. Aside from that, and the myriad minor fumbles he'd made but which ultimately didn't matter, the outcome had been great. Grand. Norren freedom. Independence for Narashtovik. You couldn't ask for more.

But it had come at a cost.

He skipped quickly through his recent stint in Setteven, telling her nothing of his schemes against the king. For all he knew, Taya and Lolligan were still executing a revised version of the plan, and while it seemed highly unlikely Minn would care, let alone tell someone (who?) about it, he saw no need to expose their operation to any risk, however slight.

"It all sounds so busy," she said once he'd finished.

"I guess it was."

"Do you miss it?"

"Not yet." He grinned. "I told you my story. Now why don't you tell me how the People of the Pocket are so good at hiding."

"Not yet," she smiled back. "No need to clutter your head with what might be until you've learned to do more than see a few shadows."

"Then let's get cracking."

"Tomorrow." She stood, shaking one foot to work the blood back into it. "See you then."

With nothing else to do, he ran through a few sword-and-dagger forms, then set aside his blades and practiced seeing the nether. Even after his revelation, it was hard to spot it unless he looked at something alive, such as his hand or the shiny black beetle that had trundled in during his recitation to Minn. He tried to see it in the shelves, but in the dimness of the room, he couldn't tell whether the shadows were nethereal, physical, or the spawn of his imagination. Once his irritation began to show up, he blew out the candle and went to bed. No use getting angry over something that was supposed to be fun.

What with the lack of windows or daylight, he stayed asleep until Minn came for him. After breakfast, they went outside. The sea winds were sharp enough to cut off the tips of his ears. One night inside and he was already spoiled.

"Winter's here," she said, padding southward in the direction of the tide pools. "What do you suppose that means?"

"That the weather is intolerably cold?"

"Do you find flippant questions help you to learn?"

"Sure. They drive away the gadflies. Those who stick around must
really
want to teach me."

"You're right. Asking you about Winter was an unfair question, one you couldn't possibly answer." Minn walked on, gazing out to sea. "If fall is the season of clarity, winter is the season is difficulty. Everything becomes harder, from the ground to survival. Animals go into hiding. Trees hide their wealth inside nuts. To make it, you have to learn to reach into the cold, dark places."

"Meaning what, in practice?"

"It's time to learn to touch the nether."

"Sounds easy," he said. "I know right where it is."

She tipped her head to the side, neither conceding nor disagreeing. "Most find it the harshest season. Learning to touch it means learning to forge a connection with it."

"Okay, then how do I do that?"

"Why don't you try for yourself?"

"And then we'll see?"

Minn smiled. "Who's the teacher here?"

At the edge of the tide pool, he knelt. Minn stayed standing, which made him momentarily self-conscious about his decision; getting a few inches closer to the nether probably would not bring him the slightest bit closer to being able to touch it with his mind. But whatever, he was already down on his knees. More restful anyway.

A blue-finned fish drifted above a brainish lump of coral, nibbling at whatever caught its fancy. Blays cleared his throat—bit of an odd thing to do, given that he wasn't about to speak to it, but again, this was his show—and looked. And there the nether was. Tucked beneath the fish's scales. Looming in its gawping mouth. Lurking in its flesh.

He reached out with his mind.

He thought he did, anyway. He certainly focused on the fish and the nether inside it, concentrating on the wisps of blackness. But he didn't feel a thing.

"Is this like when I was trying to see it?" He sat back on the rocks, withdrawing his focus. "Am I touching it, but it's so subtle I just don't know it?"

"Everyone's feel for the shadows is different," Minn said. "But when you do feel it, trust me—you'll know."

He tried again, jabbing his attention at the fish like a spear. It didn't flinch. Neither did its nether. He tried coming at it sidelong, whistling a lazy tune while his thoughts snuck closer and closer. All to no effect. He was about to cycle through all these approaches again, then sat back and threw back his head.

He was going about this like a stupid person. Flailing about like a child with a wooden sword. Speaking of, he was already damn good at one area that required the perfect tuning of his mind and body: sword fighting. And he had a ritual whenever he was attempting to learn a new technique.

It had begun as a general exercise, a way to isolate and thus gain control of every individual muscle group in his body: as he breathed in and out, he flexed and relaxed, learning to isolate (say) the muscles under his arms from those in his shoulders. It was a surprisingly useful exercise. It relaxed him, but it also taught him to exert sudden, devastating force wherever he cared to deliver it. For instance, a downward cross-body stroke could be augmented with a sudden diagonal tensing of his abdominals. He might do no more than twitch his wrist, but the extra force generated by the rest of his body could add bone-splitting force to his strike.