She resumed brushing. 'When I was a human, I had a mirror. Every girl is given a mirror when she comes into her blood. A mirror is a woman's strength. But they took mine.' She dropped the brush. Seeing sidestepped away from her as she fumbled into her sleeve and brought out the mirror and stared at her ghost face. 'Why did you make me look? Why did you give me this mirror?'
He set down the knife and rose. 'The mirror is your staff. Each Guardian has a staff, each according to the nature of the cloak that Guardian wears. I have a staff, as you see-' He picked up his stout, beribboned staff from the ground. '-although I admit I am the only Guardian with a staff that is actually a walking staff. You have a mirror. Death — you saw her — should carry a sword, appropriate to death, I am sure. The sun with his fiery arrow. The earth with her deadly snake. And the others, so on. There is a great deal to teach you, lass. Tell me when you are ready to hear more.'
The weary despair in those demon-blue eyes made him wish to weep for whatever misery she had endured. 'Why did you make me remember?'
'The altar made you remember. And the mirror did as well, by
strengthening your connection to the altar. A Guardian's staff has many uses. One is to aid a new Guardian in awakening. By fully knowing what you were, you can perhaps accept what you are now, what is right and what is wrong, and where your duty lies.'
'I want to go back to my tribe.'
A rising wind rumbled over the saddle, promising rain. He tasted its sweetness on his lips.
'I want to go home,' she said as the first falling raindrops slid down her face.
'Come, lass, take cover.' He indicated the overhang.
But even after the horses wisely broke for shelter, she remained out in the open while the rain hammered her, as if she were praying for obliteration.
The rain slackened to a drizzle, which faded to drips, and a ray of sun lightened the blooming terraces of veil of mercy and hundred-petaled butter-bright until the colors dazzled. In Argent Hall, Joss sat cross-legged at his desk, looking out through the open doors at the marshal's garden and the two reeve hopefuls who had been put to work weeding. The young men talked together in the way of new acquaintances who have discovered they like the same things: the best kind of hook for catching white-mouth, the best weight of stick for a casual game of hooks- and-ropes, the best fertilizer if you wanted a better yield from your jabi bushes. Farm boys.
'Marshal?' The clerk sat with hands folded in his lap. He was a slender lad with a narrow face, dark eyes, and a freshly shaved head with a healing nick over behind the left ear. 'Was there more?'
'Neh, not if you got that lot of correspondence complete. You can go, Udad.'
'Yes, Marshal.' He hesitated, not gathering up his supplies.
The lad had an inability to ask questions directly that Joss found exceedingly tiresome. 'I meant you were free for the rest of the day. Do you want to go back to Olossi?'
'Not if you need me, Marshal.'
Joss surveyed the neat stacks of correspondence ready to be carried by eagle to their intended recipients, and the striking lack of mess in the chamber. A cupboard divided into shelves and cubbies
was organized according to subject matter and sender or some other arcane system Joss hoped he would never have to decipher. 'We've done enough. Take a pair of free days, if that's what you'd like.'
'If you're sure it's not too much trouble, Marshal.'
'If I did, I wouldn't offer,' said Joss dryly. 'Be back by twilight on Resting Snake. That'll give you three free days in Olossi.'
'Thank you!' Still, he did not rise.
'Is there something else?'
Siras was sitting by the door, idly chiseling patterns in a broken plank. Without looking up, he said, 'I think Udad is hoping a reeve can ferry him to Olossi.'
'Of course! You'll go with the correspondence. You can deliver it yourself tonight. Otherwise, you'd spend your three days' leave walking there and back.' With an eagle always at his disposal, it was difficult for Joss to remember how long it took other people to get around.
'Thank you, Marshal!' Flushed, but grinning, the lad unrolled his work cloth and set the drying inkstone in its box, the brushes and other scribe's tools in their sleeves. Joss watched, caught between admiration and an intense relief that he himself need not be so tidy.
As soon as Udad clattered down the stairs, Siras said, 'If you had him tending your sleeping chamber, it wouldn't be such a wreck.'
'If I were another man, you'd be whipped for your impertinence.'
'As you say, Marshal.' He grinned without looking up from his work.
'What are you doing?'
Siras set the chisel aside and displayed the plank, salvaged from an outbuilding that had collapsed during Yordenas's brief tenure as marshal. A row of flowers bloomed across the top of the wood.
'That's quite good.'
Siras laughed. 'Didn't think I had any talents, did you? Both my mother and father are woodcarvers. That's what I always thought I would do.'
'How did you get to Argent Hall?'
Siras gestured toward the men working through the herb bed, bands plucking and tossing the always verminous weeds. 'Came to try my luck, same as many do. My clan didn't want me to go, but my mother told them to let me try. Thought when I spent my
months here and nothing came of it, I could come back to my true work.'
'A wise woman, your mother. Was she quite irritated it didn't work out as she planned?'
Siras smiled, but instead of answering he swept up the bits and dust of wood and scattered this debris in the flower beds, to the laughing protests of the farm boys. A bell rang, signaling the end of drill.
'Bring tea, will you? The fawkners and trainers will be here shortly. And tell those lads they're finished for the day.'
Siras tucked the chisel into his sleeve and the plank under his arm. Joss heard him exchange words with the youths outside, who — like the responsible farm lads they were — said they'd finish the one herb terrace they were on before they left it for the day, thank you.
Light shimmered on the flowers. A haze of aroma and color seemed to rise out of them, and out of that incandescent blaze might walk Marit, to chide him for his faults. The hells! Was that what he had reduced his memories of her into? A lilu who wished not to seduce his body but to improve his character? She hadn't pinned him down that very first time, years ago, because she was interested in his character.
Fawkners and trainers arrived in a flood of chatter and complaints, with Volias slithering in their midst.
'Didn't I tell you to return to Clan Hall with a report?' Joss asked, singling him out as everyone else settled on pillows and mats.
'Going at dawn tomorrow,' muttered Volias, his usual snarl subdued. 'Just did another few sweeps looking for that cursed woman, Tumna's reeve.'
Joss was so surprised to hear this that he answered as he might any other person. 'She can't have got far. I don't believe she had any kin to turn to, or any place to go, really.'
'Yes,' agreed Volias. 'Which is what worries me.'
'Tumna's healing in the lofts. She'll do her own hunting once her wing is better.'
'If Nallo survives so long.'
When Volias glared at him, waiting for the sarcastic retort, Joss felt shame for snapping at the other reeve just because he himself was brooding. 'Everyone should be keeping such a close eye out for
her, it's true. Nevertheless, if she's gone to ground there's not much we can do. She's stubborn.'
Volias sat, elbow propped on bent knee and forehead resting on the back of a hand as he gazed out the open doors, as if hoping to see her walk in.
Aui! This was something.
Joss sat.
Verena rubbed an arm, smiling wryly. 'You look tired, Marshal.'
'So do we all, I am sure. How's your shoulder?'
