The Gathering of the Lost by Helen Lowe Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Lowe
Tags: Fantasy
year.”
The golden eyes narrowed, glittering—and then the minstrel laughed, easy and a little mocking. “I do have a lead,” he said. “We have explored all other paths, Commander Asantir and I, which leaves only you, the herald pair who waited a full moon by the Border Mark. Really, it all fits.” The voice of the lute sounded, light beneath his hand. “Who else would have the ability or the will to venture Jaransor and survive, then return to the River as though nothing had happened? Who else, I asked myself, had fought beside Kyr and Lira in the Old Keep and would honor their bodies?”
“Time to bring this to an end,” Jehane Mor told Tarathan silently. “We mean no discourtesy,” she said to Haimyr, “but you are mistaken. Tarathan and I did not conceal Malian of Night, or steal her away, five years ago. We returned alone from the Border Mark to the River.”
“Nor,” Tarathan continued evenly, “do we know where she may be found. We cannot help you, Haimyr the Golden.”
The golden eyes regarded them. “Will not,” the minstrel said, very softly, and rose to his feet. He turned his back and looked out the window. “There are some,” he mused, “who would consider it unwise to disappoint one of the Ilvaine kin, particularly in our own city.”
“There are some,” Jehane Mor replied, very cool, “who might hear that as a threat.”
“No, how could that be?” Haimyr asked. “I would break the law of every city in the River if I threatened you.”
“So you would,” Tarathan agreed, “but then you, as you have pointed out, are of the Ilvaine kin.”
“Indeed.” The minstrel turned back from the window, a smile on his lips. “But would even the Ilvaine kin risk the gates of every city being shut against them, the face of every citizen turned away? We are just one family, after all. I merely expressed the depth of my disappointment; you do wrong to imagine threats.” Still smiling, he strolled back to the table. “You are here for the whole of the festival, are you not, as am I. It may be that you will recall something you have forgotten, or think of some way to assist me after all.”
“There is nothing we have forgotten and nothing we can do to assist you.” Jehane Mor rose to her feet and bowed. “We wish you joy of the festival, Haimyr Ilvaine.”
He made no move to detain them, only bowed in return with one hand placed over his heart. “I wish you the same joy,” he said. “And we shall speak again. I am sure of it.”
“N ow that,” said Jehane Mor, as they crossed the busy inn yard, “still felt like a threat.”
“Because it was one.” Tarathan’s mindvoice was flat . “Let’s take the long way, ” he added, when they had cleared the inn gate and turned toward the road that looped around the perimeter of Minstrels’ Island. They made their way through the throng of musicians, students, and festival visitors, eventually descending a zigzag path to the Bridge of Boats. The bridge was formed by pontoons of barges that connected the series of islets between Minstrels’ Island and Landward, a large island immediately to the north of the river port. The bridge was almost empty when the heralds reached the first pontoon, where the customary statue of the goddess Imulun gazed back toward the College dome. She held the staff of wisdom in her right hand, while a stone lion crouched at her feet.
Jehane Mor stared up at the timeworn plinth, noting the goddess’s compassionate gaze and the lion’s watchful stare before she bowed her head. The god Seruth, she knew, would stand on the other side of the bridge. In Ij, it was always Imulun who looked toward the city, while Seruth, guardian of journeys, faced the outside world—everywhere, that is, except for the bridges that led to the Assassins’ School. The god Kan, the Dancer in Shadow, always kept watch over both those who entered and those who left the Secret Isle.
The heralds walked on until they stood on a
The golden eyes narrowed, glittering—and then the minstrel laughed, easy and a little mocking. “I do have a lead,” he said. “We have explored all other paths, Commander Asantir and I, which leaves only you, the herald pair who waited a full moon by the Border Mark. Really, it all fits.” The voice of the lute sounded, light beneath his hand. “Who else would have the ability or the will to venture Jaransor and survive, then return to the River as though nothing had happened? Who else, I asked myself, had fought beside Kyr and Lira in the Old Keep and would honor their bodies?”
“Time to bring this to an end,” Jehane Mor told Tarathan silently. “We mean no discourtesy,” she said to Haimyr, “but you are mistaken. Tarathan and I did not conceal Malian of Night, or steal her away, five years ago. We returned alone from the Border Mark to the River.”
“Nor,” Tarathan continued evenly, “do we know where she may be found. We cannot help you, Haimyr the Golden.”
The golden eyes regarded them. “Will not,” the minstrel said, very softly, and rose to his feet. He turned his back and looked out the window. “There are some,” he mused, “who would consider it unwise to disappoint one of the Ilvaine kin, particularly in our own city.”
“There are some,” Jehane Mor replied, very cool, “who might hear that as a threat.”
“No, how could that be?” Haimyr asked. “I would break the law of every city in the River if I threatened you.”
“So you would,” Tarathan agreed, “but then you, as you have pointed out, are of the Ilvaine kin.”
“Indeed.” The minstrel turned back from the window, a smile on his lips. “But would even the Ilvaine kin risk the gates of every city being shut against them, the face of every citizen turned away? We are just one family, after all. I merely expressed the depth of my disappointment; you do wrong to imagine threats.” Still smiling, he strolled back to the table. “You are here for the whole of the festival, are you not, as am I. It may be that you will recall something you have forgotten, or think of some way to assist me after all.”
“There is nothing we have forgotten and nothing we can do to assist you.” Jehane Mor rose to her feet and bowed. “We wish you joy of the festival, Haimyr Ilvaine.”
He made no move to detain them, only bowed in return with one hand placed over his heart. “I wish you the same joy,” he said. “And we shall speak again. I am sure of it.”
“N ow that,” said Jehane Mor, as they crossed the busy inn yard, “still felt like a threat.”
“Because it was one.” Tarathan’s mindvoice was flat . “Let’s take the long way, ” he added, when they had cleared the inn gate and turned toward the road that looped around the perimeter of Minstrels’ Island. They made their way through the throng of musicians, students, and festival visitors, eventually descending a zigzag path to the Bridge of Boats. The bridge was formed by pontoons of barges that connected the series of islets between Minstrels’ Island and Landward, a large island immediately to the north of the river port. The bridge was almost empty when the heralds reached the first pontoon, where the customary statue of the goddess Imulun gazed back toward the College dome. She held the staff of wisdom in her right hand, while a stone lion crouched at her feet.
Jehane Mor stared up at the timeworn plinth, noting the goddess’s compassionate gaze and the lion’s watchful stare before she bowed her head. The god Seruth, she knew, would stand on the other side of the bridge. In Ij, it was always Imulun who looked toward the city, while Seruth, guardian of journeys, faced the outside world—everywhere, that is, except for the bridges that led to the Assassins’ School. The god Kan, the Dancer in Shadow, always kept watch over both those who entered and those who left the Secret Isle.
The heralds walked on until they stood on a