The Phoenix Unchained (39 page)

“MY dear son Tiercel
,” (he read) “
Your mother and sisters and I are grateful to hear that you are alive and well, as it has been some time since the letter with your rather surprising news came from Sentarshadeen. You will understand that the information which you have chosen to impart to us comes as something of a shock, especially considering that the genesis of these events lies so many moonturns in the past, at a time when you still possessed the full resources of your family to draw upon—
”

Tiercel sighed, looking away from the letter. He knew that the full disclosure of, well,
everything
, had to have hurt his parents deeply. Both the thought that he’d kept secrets from them, and the thought that he hadn’t turned to them for help. He sighed again. He only wished they
could
have helped.

“
I appreciate your deep confusion at that time, and from your own account you acted with great level-headedness, seeking counsel from Healers and Preceptors both, in addition to doing extensive historical research. While I certainly do not endorse your decision to pursue your objective in secrecy, still less to involve Harrier Gillain in a course of action that involved lying to his parents—though I quite understand that your original intention was to have gone to Sentarshadeen and returned with no one being the wiser about any of this—it is entirely possible that, faced with the choices and decisions that you were faced with, my own responses would have been similar to your own. It is a very grave quandary which you face: not only what to do, but how to do it, and the knowledge that, if you succeed, you will inevitably take your place upon the wider stage of History, for good or ill. This, alone, is hardly a small matter to consider, and considering the nature of the danger that you face, I know you must be very frightened right now
.”

Tiercel blinked hard. He
wouldn’t
cry—not with Harrier right across the room from him. But he’d never felt more like doing so in longer than he could remember. He
was
frightened—and he’d been so scared for so long he almost didn’t notice it any more. He was gladder than ever that he hadn’t told his parents about the Goblins. And he was more grateful than he could have imagined for his father’s understanding—even if it
did
come wrapped in a gentle scold. It was one he deserved, anyway. If he’d known back at the very beginning what was going to happen later, while he still might have concealed the truth from his parents, he wouldn’t have told it to
Harrier either. He would have gone to Sentarshadeen—and beyond—alone.

And died on the road half-a-dozen times, he realized somberly. If not for Harrier and Simera, he’d never have gotten even this far.

“I can only hope that this letter reaches you. You are somewhere where I cannot protect you, in a place where I cannot even help you. I know I’ve rarely discussed my work with you, but should it become useful or necessary to you, you should be aware that I have performed a number of significant services for Chief Magistrate Vaunnel in times past, which she will be more than willing to return, and her word is not without weight in any of the Nine Cities. While you are entirely aware that I detest the far-too-pervasive custom of trading upon favors and influence instead of permitting Law and Justice to have their way, I believe that your cause is one that merits extraordinary measures, and I know that you will not use her name, nor such influence as I possess with her, lightly, nor except at sufficient need. I believe that over the years you have given me sufficient cause to trust your judgment, my son, and though I could wish that I did not have such great need to place such faith in it now, you have all my confidence, and all my love.”

Now the tears
did
well up, and Tiercel scrubbed angrily at his eyes with the sleeve of his tunic. But they weren’t unmixed with shock. Chief Magistrate Vaunnel was not only the Chief Magistrate of Armethalieh, she was first among the nine Chief Magistrates who ruled over the Nine Cities. He’d always known that his father had an important place in the running of the City, but the idea that he, Tiercel, could expect favors from Chief Magistrate Vaunnel was almost as stunning as discovering he had the Magegift. He only hoped he was never in a situation where he needed to call upon them.

“Your mother, naturally, is greatly distressed at both your departure and your absence, and fears for your health. I have reassured her that you have never come to any fatal harm while in young Harrier’s company, and though I would hardly say anything of the sort to his parents, I am greatly reassured that he is with you. Your sisters are also well. I have told them that you have gone upon an extended journey at the advice of a Wildmage—as you may certainly imagine, Brodana and Doreses are heartbroken that they did not get to go with you, and Hevnade and Katona hope that you will have the opportunity to do some shopping along the way—though Hevnade hopes for interesting examples of what she calls ‘tribal weavings’ and Katona, as always, hopes for new books.”

Tiercel had to smile at that, imagining his little sisters—though Hevnade, at fourteen, was not so very little—all thinking of this as nothing more than a lengthy pleasure-trip. He thought of what it must have cost his parents, through all the long moonturns of worrying about him, to give the impression that all was more-or-less well, and sighed heavily. He loved his family so much! And while he wasn’t really sure if he’d even see them again, the very least he owed them was to do his best to solve this . . . problem.

There was very little more of the letter.

“We shall all miss you this Wintertide, and offer daily prayers to the Light for the safe return of you and Harrier. Your loving father, Barover, Lord Rolfort.”

He took a deep breath. “I miss them,” he said.

“Yeah,” Harrier said raggedly. “My Da . . . well, he
would
send his best if he’d mentioned you at all. But you know.”

“Yeah,” Tiercel said. “Hevnade wants me to go shopping.”

Harrier snorted rudely. “Oh, like
that’s
going to happen. Unless she wants a new stormcloak and new boots—or maybe a pack mule. Pass me the cider jug.”

“Get it yourself, it’s on your side of the room,” Tiercel said heartlessly.

“By less than a handspan. And I carried it here.”

“So you’ve got plenty of practice at lifting it.”

Seeing he wasn’t going to get his way, Harrier got to his feet,
grumbling, and picked up the cider jug. They’d rented a ewer and cups along with the room, and he poured both cups full, handing one to Tiercel.

“So. What shall we do tomorrow?” he said. The subject of home and families was too painful to talk about, and Harrier was good at avoiding subjects he didn’t want to talk about. For once, Tiercel was grateful.

“The Library,” he said decisively.

BUT to Tiercel’s frustration and dismay, he was unable to do what he had hoped to do at the Great Library at Ysterialpoerin.

Certainly the Great Library had an extensive collection of pre-Flowering books. Scholars traveled from all the Nine Cities to consult them. The librarians he spoke to were happy to tell him this much, and even show him the room in which some of the books were kept, row upon row of books in tall glass-fronted cabinets.

But he’d been allowed into the closed stacks in Armethalieh because of his long friendship with the Chief Librarian, and he had no such friendships to ease his way here. Master Librarian Numus kindly explained to Tiercel that such ancient and valuable books could only be made available to trained scholars. He did
not
say that they could not be pawed by scruffy young students on holiday, because he was a kind and patient man, but Tiercel knew perfectly well what he looked like, even in newly-bought travel clothes. Even if he had been wearing his Light-day finest, it would have been difficult to persuade a stranger that a youngster without any formal credentials should be allowed to handle books dozens of centuries old, especially when he could give no good reason for wishing to do so.

He thought about what his father had said in his letter, and he hesitated. He really wanted to see those books. But deep in his
heart, he didn’t think that something like this was what his father had meant. His life wasn’t in danger, and neither was Harrier’s. The books would be helpful, but they weren’t vital.

So he said nothing, and left.

“IT was a good try,” Harrier said consolingly, as they walked down the Library steps. They’d spent the first part of the day on more errands—with money in hand, they’d moved their mounts to better stabling, in a place where they could be turned out to graze for most of the day, as well as treating themselves to a long session at one of the city’s many bathhouses. Tiercel had only arrived at the Great Library of Ysterialpoerin in the afternoon, and even without succeeding in his errand, had spent several hours there. By now it was evening, and their minds were turning toward dinner. The hostel they were staying at did not have a kitchen, but there were many cheap eating places in Ysterialpoerin, and a list of those nearest to their accommodations was posted in the hostel’s common room. After so long on the road, every meal they didn’t have to cook themselves was a luxury.

“I should have known it wouldn’t work,” Tiercel grumbled.

“You never know until you try. And . . . couldn’t you have put a spell on him to make him do what you want, or something?”

“Maybe. If I knew what I was doing. But if I knew how to do something like that already, we wouldn’t have to go find the Elves, now, would we, Har?”

“That’s a point.”

“And I’m not sure it would be right.”

“What?”

“To use magic to get what I want. It doesn’t seem as if it would be fair.”

“But you don’t just want it. You need it. And it’s important.”

Tiercel frowned. “I’ll have to think about that.”

“It’s not like you won’t have time. Because you
can’t
cast a spell that would get you in there, so you can think about whether you
would
have done it all you like.”

Because it was true, Tiercel shoved him. Harrier shoved him back, and a short scuffle broke out. It continued as they moved up the street—neither looking where he was going—as they worked off some of the tension of the unpleasant events of the past days.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going, street rats!”

Harrier’s last enthusiastic shove had propelled Tiercel directly into the path of a very large stranger.

He was obviously a person of consequence—his clothing alone told Tiercel that—as well as the fact that he was on the street with half a dozen servants in household livery. On second glance, seeing that he wore a household badge on his own cloak, Tiercel decided that he must be the Chief Steward of some noble household in the city. Such men could often be more arrogant than the nobles they served.

“I’m very sorry, goodsir,” Tiercel said, stepping back. But the stranger had grabbed his arm and was shaking it violently.

“Don’t you know to give way to your betters? I should give you a sound thrashing!”

“Get your hands off him!” Harrier jumped forward and yanked Tiercel out of the stranger’s bruising grasp, but when he did, the stranger’s servants stepped forward, obviously eager for trouble.

Tiercel shrugged Harrier off quickly. He faced the stranger and bowed. “Once again, my deepest apologies, goodsir. We are strangers to your city, and were not watching our steps. We very much regret all the trouble and inconvenience we have caused you with our hasty and ill-considered brawling.”

“As well you should,” the stranger growled, though it was obvious he was somewhat mollified by Tiercel’s humble words. “Strangers here?”

“We come from Armethalieh, goodsir,” Tiercel said, bowing again.

“You’ve come a long way to make trouble. Family cast you out, I don’t doubt. Well, I’ll let it go this time. But cross my path again and I’ll give you a hiding you’ll remember for the rest of your days.”

“Yes, goodsir. Thank you, goodsir,” Tiercel said, bowing again and stepping back toward the wall.