Linden opened the notebook and watched her sketches and the map that she had drawn of the corridors she had pa.s.sed. Yes, watch the map and forget the fake images in your mind. She had been drawing maps since she had learned to hold a quill. She knew maps; maps were a convenient thing to focus on while coping with what was not real. A map was the real word.

Or, was it?

The world was the stone, wooden door, the quill, her dress, the wild rain and the moons. It was the Qynnsent corridors, twisting along the House's wings, and it was the banners themselves, not the dots and stars she had drawn to mark their locations. A dot for a regular banner, a star for a changelinga"dots and stars were banners for Linden now, but for someone else they would be just meaningless symbols.

The map was not the world. The map, like the darkness Linden and Master Keitaro had discussed earlier tonight, had no meaning but what she gave to it.

In the same way, the images in her mind should hold no more fear and doleful fate than she allowed.

Linden turned a page and scratched a word.

Extrapolation.

It worked in the same way that the painting on Merchant Pierre's women's perfumes did. Pierre got them in the same bare gla.s.s flasks and from the same Factory that Merchant Larissa did, but he did not stop at that. While Larissa's flasks remained bare on her shop's shelf, Pierre had hired someone to paint a happy woman's face and the face of a devoted man on each of his flasks. And somehow, even though Pierre's shop was more expensive, many of Linden's neighbors preferred to buy perfume from him.

"You will be a loved, happy woman with perfume from this flask," the painting seemed to say, and in those women's minds this seemed to turn to, "With perfume from a simple, bare flask, you would be bare and simple yourself. Unloved. Unhappy."

It was the same wretched perfume, but a simple painting made people tell unpleasant stories to themselves.

Linden bit her lip, then took another deep breath. What stories was she telling to herself right now?

Start with the first image, the one about the witch tied to a pine. It was still clear in her mind, and so was the image about the runaway girl and the lord. The rest of the images, even the elemental samodiva, blended together. She might have to divide them in order to fight them ...

No. Not fight. Interpret.

She gripped the quill and wrote down the facts (and no more) about the witch and the runaway, even though the lump in her throat made her eyes blurred. Then she read about the first image and thought. A woman, a crowd coming to her cottage in the night. The woman with her clothes torn tied to a pine tree; the woman's dog and cat inside the house; the house starting to burn. That was the essence of the image, but the essence was not all she had perceived. She had imagined the woman raped and the animals dead in torture, while the peasants went back to the village unharmed. Like merchant Pierre's customers, she had made her own story around someone else's "painting."

"It never happened, did it?" she whispered to the room. "And why should I believe you, whether you answer yes or no? If you answer at all. Well, I will not be feeding your doleful stories with my imaginings! I will not be making your doleful stories. If I do not know what the true stories are, I will make my own."

This image is already in my mind, but I will make the best story I cana"not the worsta"with it.

Linden gripped the quill again and wrote.

She was tied with her clothes torn, yes, but no one would rape her. They were trying to burn her loving dog and cat, but both would live and be wella"she would save them. Those were useless peasants who knew nothing at all, but she knew about soil, and so to the soil she calleda"to Mierenthia.

The soil that the humans ruthlessly plowed was the same soil that swallowed human houses in its rage. The force that made a small seed grow was the same force that raised mountains.

She called to that quiet, dormant, devastating force. It erupted beneath the offending feet of the first one who dared approach her. She heard them scream as his senseless body fell into the crowd; saw them run as rocks and lumps of dirt rained on them.

Fear gripped her heart as she watched lumps of earth fall on the roof, but the earth was here for her, to help her. The smoke drifted away from the roof as the flames died beneath a thick layer of soil, and the door cracked as a large stone rolled against it. In a moment, a large black dog, who had forgotten about limping, and a tabby kitten ran towards her.

She cried while their teeth tore her bounding ropes. She kissed them both, then kissed the pine tree and the soil beneath her. Then she smiled. She would repair her dear old cottage first. Then she would go down to the village and take the two little boys who got often beaten because they were smart. She was planning to raise and teach those two, and perhaps she would teach the rest their own lesson. Besides ... she would perhaps go find happiness and love.

She could do anything. Nothing could stop her.

Linden could do anything, too. When she had first started writing, her fingers had been blue with cold, but now the blood seemed to flow more easily inside them. Her breathing was more stable, and she could move her limbs. Perhaps she could stand up, too, if she tried. She did. Her eyes still were blurred, and when she made a step the floor seemed to sway, but then from amongst all the images in her mind came the image of a treea"proud and erect even in the storm, stable.

So she stood stable, herself, then scribbled in the notebook a question about whether trees could be proud. Pride was something human.

She would find the way out of this room, she knew it now. Something had changed between her and the room, like something had changed yesterday between Rianor and Dimna. Where there had been empty stone walls before, she could now see vague shapes, and beneath the banner across from where the door had been, some little green light flickered.

Especially if she squinted and concentrated on it, it did. Almost, Linden wanted to explore the light, but she would not be so stupid a second time. The exploration she had already done here was more than enough.

"You will let me go," she whispered, at the green light and the gloomy room.

It would, but first she must write her own version of what happened to the lord and the girl who ran away with him, and then think about the other, blended images.

Then, suddenly, a new sensation made her almost drop the notebook. Something ... someone was watching her, focusing on her with a force that was almost physical.

She did drop the notebook when the real lord stepped from behind the shadows just as the room changed.

Rianor

Night 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705 She did not see him immediately. She sat on the floor across the Aetarx, her feet tugged beneath her, a notebook propped on her knees. She was scribbling. Fast and furious, her quill darted across the sheets, her hair glittering with the Aetarx's green light, her thin, silver-green dress caressing her body every time she shifted to turn the pages. A dress in his colorsa"or the Aetarx's.

Rianor watched her silently for some time, his mind trying to connect possibilities and explanations. He had rejected the notion of her being a vision immediately. The Aetarx had tried blurring his mind with fake pictures when he had first become the High Lord, but he had learned to keep it out. He had learned to resist the confusion, pleasure, fear, anger, and the unexplained yearning. Anything unexplained was not to be trusted, including the Aetarxa"and including beautiful women with complex minds, materializing at a place where no women, or any men but him, should be able to enter.

She rose, slowly and with difficulty, and now that he could see her better, Rianor noticed her dress was crumpled and her face was pale.

"You will let me go," she said, quietly.

Rianor stepped from behind the shadows, his eyes fixing hers. She dropped the notebook, jerkily, the quill trembling in her fingers.

He kept his voice emotionless. "Why, don't you like it here? Where do you want to go, Linde?"

She dropped the quill, too. Perhaps she had not seen him before, had not been talking to him. Then she slowly knelt, and he wondered, surprised, that this particular woman was going to ask for forgiveness in such a servile manner. He was partly irritated and partly amused when she just picked her writing materials and rose again, the dress sweeping around her, and returned his gaze without even blinking.

The Aetarx was pulsing now, green light flowing into silver with speed that almost gave him a headache, the glow bathing her figure. She raised a hand to toss some stranded hair back, and the light followed in ripplesa"like water did when you swung a hand quickly in a full batha"like light made of water, following and obeying the wishes of a fairytale lake witch.

Now, that was interesting.

"My enticing witch," Rianor found himself saying, then corrected himself mentally. He had not found himself saying anything. As usual, his mind was in full control; he meant it. His mind also registered the distress his words caused her, the slight quiver of her hands crossing in front of her chest, and the immobility of her features. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and when she shook her head as if to get rid of the light, Rianor realized that her distress had been strong even before she had seen him. And she had not been addressing him earlier; her eyes had been focused in the opposite direction, towards the Aetarx.

"What is this place?" She was addressing him now, making an effort to control her voice.

He inclined his head, still suspicious. "You mean you do not know?"

She did not, or she was a very good actress. She was afraid of the light and of the way it embraced her slim throat and sparkled further down her beautiful bodya"and she was afraid of the way Rianor's eyes traced it.

He raised them back to her face. Interesting how her being here had distressed him. He had wanted to see her immediately, had been looking forward to talking to her, but it would not have been exactly polite to go to her rooms so late at night. It was after midnight already, and he had been back in Qynnsent for almost an hour now, but he did not want to sleep, and he had not really wanted to talk to Desmond, or to Nan, whom he had awakened to treat the First Counselor with her herbs and potions.

He had come here, insteada"as if he had wanted to make sure that his own Ber place was still holding, that it had not erupted in smoke and trickery like the temple. Or perhaps he had come here because here neither Nan nor anyone else could pester him; because here he could be alone.

Or because here he was supposed to be alone. How on Mierenthia had she entered? This was a place that only the High Ruler of a House could access. Had to access, sometimes. Rianor glanced at the throbbing Aetarx, uneasy with both the artifact and her presence. He had underestimated the extent of her abilities, and he did not know her nearly well enough to determine her intentions.

She made a step, separating her clenched hands in a determined manner. The light followed her.

"If I knew where I was, I wouldn't be wasting breath in asking you, my lord!"

The t.i.tle sounded biting, in an intriguing way that had his eyes linger at her alluring, parted lips. Witch, in more than one aspect, but he was not usually p.r.o.ne to losing his judgement because of female beauty. Maybe now it was because of the Aetarxa"or because he had also seen her intelligent and rebellious, clutching at the right to make choices in a world that did not let her; because she had no respect whatsoever for social authority and systems that did not make sense to her. She was like him, a rare someone he could talk to. Still, no one but a conqueror could desecrate a House's Inner Sanctum against the High Ruler's wishes.

So was there a chance of her plotting to become a High Lady? Or was this beautiful vision of a witch really here against his wishes?

"Why are you looking at me in this way!"

The Aetarx's light bubbled and made waves, and she shivered, but her anger seemed stronger than fear. She spoke again before he had time to answer.

"Yours? Witch? What is ita"rape, torture, or burning that you are planning? Now, or when this place had possibly been more successful in shattering my mind and body? What is it that you keep here, anyway? The suffering quintessences of other, long-perished prisoners? Other enticing witches?"

"I do not know what I keep here, to tell you the truth."

It was not a reply she expected. She stared at him, and slowly he extended a hand towards her, taking care to not touch her yet. Touching her right now was not a good idea. "Come here."

She looked at him in a way that seemed to ask "Are you a fool or do you think I am one?" and Rianor sighed, wondering exactly what he had brought upon himself. Everything concerning her was, mildly said, interesting.

"Give me your hand, Linde," he said, half-soothingly. "I promise to not rape you before I have at least taken a shower. I won't burn or torture you, either, so let me get rid of this light and disconnect you from the Aetarx."

She did not plot anything, it was clear now. She did not even know what she had done. The thoughts were transparent on her tired, frightened, but determined face. The silly girl behaved as if she had stumbled upon this room and been surprised unpleasantly. Which, come to think of it, she might as well have donea"if the entrance to the Aetarx corridor had not imperceptibly rejected her, if it had not hidden itself from her like it would hide from anyone else climbing the tower stairs. Why not that, too, if a whip would not hit her? Rianor had allowed her to explore Qynnsent.

Hesitantly, she reached a hand towards him, staying silent while he pulled her towards himself, stroking her hair and shoulders. Her dress was slightly torn at the back. What had she been doing exactly?

"Calm down and let's take you out of here," he murmured in her ear, the light lingering around his fingers, tickling and warming him, penetrating his skin, reaching into his mind, calling.

The Aetarx should leave her alone. She was not a High Lady; she did not belong to it.

She could belong to him, though, this exquisite, rebellious witch who did not know her place. She was in his place now and he could enjoy taming her.

Deepest fears, inmost desires, the Aetarx could dig them all out if you let it. Could make you act on them, sometimes, and you could never be sure if they were your true fears or desires, or if you had become somehow ... confused. The High Ruler archives in Rianor's suite had records of High Lords or Ladies who had achieved various degrees of Aetarx madness. Rianor liked to think that he had not, himself. He did not belong to the Aetarx, even if it was only because of his own personal rebellions.

He blinked, then focused on his High Lord's wrist.w.a.tch, on making the device absorb the Aetarx's light and let his witch exit the Inner Sanctum freely.

Then she grabbed his left wrist and the flow of light stopped abruptly.

"Rianor, don't do this, please." Her fingers were very, very cold. "I don't feel that this is right."

He blinked again, to clear the temporary disorientation that sometimes occurred as a result of him using the watch. The maddening woman had disrupted the Inner Sanctum's unlocking process. Now he would have to start anew, enduring some more images and becoming even more exhausted than he already was tonight. Would this night ever end?

For a moment Rianor watched the Aetarx, the silvery ovoid artifact that was the utmost symbol of his status in the world anda"at least this was what the Bers claimeda"his greatest responsibility. His bane, if he was not careful. It stood on its tray beside the stone wall across the entrance, beneath the banner, between the potted plants. Dry old bread, from last year's Day of the Master, was set on a plate before it. Fire burned in a lidded stone cup to its left, beneath the wide-leaved plant. It was the only fire Rianor knew that could burn for a whole year without connecting to the fire network. There was water in another lidded cup to the right, beneath the conifer. Both plants were green, even in winter, and their branches reached out away from the banner-wall and towards the two walls of gla.s.s. The eastern wall, to the left, let him watch the morning Sun when it floated from behind the faraway mountains; the western wall let the afternoon Sun bathe the room in bright light.

Many rooms in Qynnsent were designed with eastern and western windows or even gla.s.s walls, but in this circular room somehow the walls seemed to get more of the Sun. The light of the Aetarx itself, some doc.u.ments said, was of the same nature as sunlight.

Rianor had to periodically access the Aetarx because he was the High Lord. An Aetarx needed a High Lord or Lady to take care if it, and supposedly Mierenthia needed all of the Aetarx to take care of it in turn. He did not know if it was true, and perhaps that was why he accessed the Aetarx and took care of it despite everything. He wanted to find out.

And, for someone who had learned to close himself to the Aetarx's emissions of turbulence and sadness, there was still a certain feeling of beauty to be found in the artifact and the Inner Sanctum.

Linden's hair brushed his hand as she turned her head to follow his gaze, and Rianor suddenly realized that he was no longer angry with her, but with the Aetarx for frightening her. The realization made him angry with her once again. He abruptly wrapped his arm around her waist and walked her towards the Aetarx, ignoring her fastened heartbeat.

"So you did not feel that what I was doing was right?" he said with forced calmness when they were so close to the Aetarx that if she extended her arm she could touch it. She turned to look at him but said nothing, and he gently caught her chin and turned her head back to the Aetarx.

"Look at the Aetarx, my witch, look at it carefully. It is a beautiful artifact and one that makes people perform deeds they might later regret."

"I understand." Her look interrupted him even before her exquisite, impertinent mouth had shaped a word. Her eyes looked like a storm, then settled in a hard, gla.s.s-like appearance that was especially fetching on her.

"So this is one of the celebrated elements," she said, "of the great whole that is the quintessence of the Master's world. This is one of the Master's gifts to humankind." She turned in his arms to face him fully. "If this is the quintessence of the Master's world, I want out of the Master's world right now! If the Master exists and this is what he would do to us, the Master should be unmade! What the books say about it is a liea"at least the books available to commoners lie. It reeks of sadness and fear, and it talked to me. Drew images in my mind, more accurately! What is the problem with you, Rianor? Wretched sorrowful things that should not be able to talk or act seem to talk to me and try to imprison me ever since I met you!"

"I am glad I am making your life interesting. Mine has not been too peaceful with you, either."

That shut her up, but he was not finished with her. "Yes, I know the Aetarx drew images in your mind. It has the habit of doing so, and I would have expected a woman as smart as you are to have realized that it affects feelings. I hope, thus, that you can later explain to me why you acted only because you felt something was or was not right, without thinking."

She fixed his eyes with hers. "You would have expected? Well, I would have expected a man as smart as you are to have realized that it does not affect the feelings themselves. It gives you thoughtsa"images. What feelings you allow based on those thoughts depends only on you."

He fixed her eyes back. "I said that you could explain to me later. Now, I am taking you to my suite."

For a moment he left the sentence at that, despite her sudden rigidness. The woman really had no idea of the consequences of breaking into a House's Inner Sanctum, proceeding to even interfere with the High Lord's interaction with the Aetarx because she "felt it was not right." In any other House, the best that could happen to her now was Bers. She was too complex for a mere lady and apprentice, too dangerous. And d.a.m.n inquisitive fool that he was, always poking and tinkering with what he was not supposed to poke and tinker with, Rianor liked it.

"We are only going there because after this stunt we need to talk, and there are doc.u.ments you need to seea"doc.u.ments that never leave the High Ruler's rooms, which, actually, you are not supposed to see. So stop looking at me as if I were some s.e.x maniac who needed to be clubbed on the head because his ideas of a good time consisted of taking his victim on a stroll amongst the foulest places, creatures, and artifacts."

She awarded him with an unreadable look, then smiled, but it was a neurotic smile, as if now she would do something else reckless. How did the Aetarx affect a woman who was not a High Lady? Was it a better choice now to take her to bed, postponing all conversations until she had slept through her emotions? Rianor gritted his teeth, angry with Linden for heedlessly doing deeds of possible enormity, and angry with himself for neglecting to warn her and failing to predict her. She was so much more perplexing than a Scientific experimenta"a nuisance, which on the other hand finally provided him with a conversation partner.

"I would have never guessed that you were not such a maniac, Rianor."

So she was teasing him now. He was too affected to resist slowly stroking her nape, leaning to whisper into her ear.

"Trust me, my lady, I can do better than that with you."

Like going to bed now, alone, forcing himself to sleep through desires and emotions. This girl had the potential to help hima"to understand hima"just how fast could some s.e.xual trifling between the two of them waste it?

She ran the fingers of one hand against his cheek, as if testing his resolve, murmuring something like, " 'My lady' is not correct, I do not yet have the status of a lady."

"I can easily fix that." He caught her wrist to stop her, but then caressed her palm, mustering all self-control available when this small motion made her tremble.

"Can you, my lord?" Her other hand slipped along his shoulder and down his arm, teasing until the moment she grabbed his sleeve and hauled him to herself. The eyes staring at his were furious albeit deceivingly beautiful.

"And what, my lord, is your price? I may not be willing to pay it!"

Rianor did not give her a reply. A part of him knew that he had teased her, too, his own behavior feeding quite some of the misunderstanding. But it was only a part of him amongst many. Others urged him to grab her pretty throat and squeeze, or grab her pretty dress and tear it. And her sharp, accusing, exquisite eyes made him even angrier.

Silently, he gripped her left hand and thrust her sleeve up, s.n.a.t.c.hing the new wrist.w.a.tch from his pocket and clasping it to her wrist in a single motion. She paled as the watch faded into her skin, the inside of her wrist flashing with a scarlet, exquisitely drawn Qynnsent symbol.

"Fixed, my lady. We should have had a ceremony, but this is the part that matters. Now do you want to come and talk to me, or would you prefer me to come up with a price? "