The Shadowglass (The Bone Witch, #3)(13)
Garindor led us deeper into the house, which was filled with the oddest assortment of contraptions and bric-a-brac. Three-headed statues stared coldly down at us from high shelves, and small paintings depicted scenes of both cruel and unusual beauty—a magnificent giant of a deity stomping on an army of dying soldiers, seven-tusked elephants burst from the ground to destroy crops and livestock—all painted in bright, almost garish colors. Cruel-looking weapons of old decorated the walls.
Garindor smiled at our reactions. “This was why I chose to sequester myself from the rest of the city. Isterans are a kind and noble people, but they do not understand why I keep these instruments of destruction, even if only for study.” He sighed. “I abhor Drychta policy as much as they, having lived through many of them myself. But it is difficult to rid yourself of a festering that has been ingrained into your very bones. It is not a contradiction to try to make sense of a culture that you criticize with all your being. Would you mind if I smoke? I have some very good Adra-al cigars.”
None of us minded, and Ludvig even accepted one. “We were told you know much of asha mythology,” he began, puffing at his cheroot.
“Ah, that I did. It was one of the reasons I was chased out of Drycht. To venerate women, they said, is to diminish men. How one can lead to the other is a question they have not yet answered, if you discount the threats on my life when they had nothing else to say.” Garindor settled himself on one of the ratty chairs in the room, toeing a few parchments out of the way, and indicated that we should do the same. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Tea.”
“Tea?” Garindor leaned forward, his eyes wide. “Begging any offense, milady, but I have heard of you. You are the Dark asha who tames daeva, as Sakmeet had…but you tame the fiercest daeva. They call you Tea of the Embers—a sign of respect, of course. Your azi is mostly responsible for such a title, being quite a striking creature. It is an honor to meet you. Lords Kalen and Khalad I know of, and the famous Rahim Arrankan! Queen Deira has been looking forward to your arrival.”
The Tresean beamed.
“Altaecia is well known here; I know many doctors who can attest to her healing arts. And it is rare to have two more beautiful girls in my household, much less asha of such distinction.”
Likh squirmed. “I am an asha, but I am not a girl, milord.”
Surprised, Garindor regarded him more closely. “I was not always a good man in Drycht, my dear,” he said, his voice kind and honest. “I can only profess to be better now than I once was. Had you been born in Adra-al or Rasha you would not have had an easy time, but I am glad Kion thinks differently. You are very beautiful, either way.”
Likh blushed. “Th-thank you.”
I continued with purpose, “We’ve found a book in the Isteran library contradicting what we know of Blade that Soars’ and Dancing Wind’s origin.”
“Was that your concern?” Garindor chuckled. “Few people know of it. The original is not quite as compelling and romantic as the famous one penned by Vernasha.”
“You mean it’s true?” Kalen asked. “That’s the oldest incarnation of the legend?”
Garindor nodded. “The volume in the Isteran library has no known author, but we believe it was written by Rashnu the Just himself.”
“Rashnu of the Five Great Heroes?” Rahim exclaimed.
“Rashnu was the budding historian of the five and served as their chronicler. Samples of his writing exist in other works, and they were easy enough to compare to determine authenticity.”
“But why would Vernasha write a different version?” Khalad asked.
“It is difficult to understand someone’s motivations with so little of their text available.” Garindor spread his hands. “We have even less of Vernasha’s writings than we do of Rashnu’s. She only kept one diary, and it was not a personal journal. It dealt with the problems of founding a city. She may have intended to use the legend as the basis for the darashi oyun and knew that her version would make for a more interesting performance.”
“The original version mentions a First Harvest,” Kalen said. “What does that mean?”
“That too is a question every scholar would dearly like to know. Rashnu was Drychta—an enlightened man who would have railed at the behavior of his descendants today, I might add—and his writings were in his mother tongue. Old Drychta was hieroglyphic, and this ‘First Harvest’ is in a similar syntax as one might write ‘runeberries.’ From context, this ‘First Harvest’ is the only plant of its kind, immortal until plucked.”
Tucking the cigar between his teeth, Garindor selected a book from one of his shelves. “Rashnu refers to the First Harvest in one other document. Here: I have seen those strange blooms with my own eyes. Its name does not accord with its appearance. I have seen lovelier roses flowered, seen taller, prouder sycamore trees. But when brave Ashi reached for the sapling in curiosity, I felt its magic flow through the air, cracking like a whip. We were not worthy.
“‘It is not ours to take!’ I screamed, but too late. For an instant, I saw the tree, a Sacred Tree, beckoning me into light. Then it blinded me, sent me to my knees, threw me through the air.
“When I recovered my wits, my companions were gone. Where they once stood, the First Harvest remained—small and unimposing, deceiver, murderer. The best men and women I knew, who with me had survived countless wars and hardships, were felled by an incongruous sapling. May the light save their souls, and may the light save me.”