The Law of Isolation (2 page)

He slid the larger disk from its pouch and set it in upright in a cradle at one end of a long, narrow wooden box. Going around the room, he swung the heavy shutters over each of the wide windows until the room was deeply shadowed. He lit an oil lantern and adjusted the flame until it burned clear and steady. Tin shades slid over the lantern’s panes, allowing only a narrow beam of light to fall onto the lens.

Gevan flipped down the side of the box and fitted a sheet of paper flat along the bottom. A long triangle of light fell on it. He turned a screw until the vertical sliding panel at the far end was close to the triangle’s apex, then twitched it one painstaking hairsbreadth at a time until the light came to a perfect pinpoint. Humming to himself, he measured the distance and noted it down. He traced the bright wedge on the paper, measured the angles, and wrote them down also. Then he repeated the process with the smaller lens. This sort of meticulous attention to detail was tedious, but it was the kind of work he excelled at. Not nearly as difficult as copying and translating a half-deteriorated papyrus scroll from ancient Marvanna.

At last, the preliminaries were completed. The lens was indeed everything he had hoped. None of his previous attempts had produced anything close to the marvelous sharpness of the lines of light. The measurements had come out just as he’d predicted. Now all that remained was the final test.

His hands shook as he unfastened the shutters and swung them open. The wash of sunlight blinded him for a moment, and he blinked until the glare faded. The view looked over the rooftops of Ramunna, all the way down to the sea, where miniature ships bobbed beside tiny docks.

He removed the smaller lens from the holder and inserted it into the smaller tube, tightening the fasteners into place. The larger lens almost wouldn’t fit; he had to loosen the screws to their fullest before he could slide it in. But at last it was securely in place. Gevan fitted the smaller tube inside the larger and slid them to approximately the correct position.

He stopped and took a deep breath, staring at the device in his hands. The Purifiers would consider what he was about to attempt the foulest of heresy. How dare he seek to regain powers the Mother had forbidden to mankind? Even the most open-minded of the Temple Keepers might hesitate. When the ancient wizards had possessed those powers, they had used them to work terrible evil. Surely the Mother had been right to take them from the world.

All nonsense, of course. Gevan was far too sophisticated to believe in a literal personification of the Mother. Whatever power had brought the universe into being could not possibly be reduced to a simple anthropomorphic caricature. Everything he’d learned in his twenty years of study at the University, both from colleagues and his own investigations, pointed to a single conclusion. The world was endlessly fascinating, filled with marvels almost beyond imagining, but it was as cold and impersonal as the gears of a clock, which once set in motion played out their purpose without interference or alteration. If there was any reality to the idea of the Mother beyond a child’s wishful imaginings, surely she could be no more than the craftsman who built the clock, wound it, and left it to run as it was designed.

If what he attempted was possible, it was permissible. He need have no fear of a cosmic nanny slapping his hand like a child who played with fire.

Gevan lifted the tube to his eye and aimed the larger end out the window. He fixed his gaze on the bright circle of blurry color and slid the pieces further together. For an instant the image became clear, then was lost to fuzziness. He caught his breath, steadied his hands, and tried again. Bit by minuscule bit, he lengthened the tube.

Clear and beautiful, the picture sprang to life. As close as if he could reach out and touch them, the curved orange tiles of a roof appeared within the circle. He saw green moss on the shadowed side and individual grains of dirt in the crevices. A bird strutted into view. Its toes gripped the tiles, and its beak opened to emit a cry he was much too far away to hear.

His arm trembled and the view within the tube swooped wildly, provoking a queasy feeling in his stomach. He steadied himself and looked again. This time he found the topmost fronds of a palm tree, swaying in the breeze from the sea. He could count each individual leaflet if he wished.

Even the tiniest movement of his hands sent his view sweeping in great dramatic jerks, but Gevan persevered until he gained some measure of control. He located a street and traced it until he recognized the sign of a particular shop at an intersection. From there he followed the familiar pattern of roads down to the docks.

People crowded the waterfront and lined the harbor walls. Banners flew from every building. Gevan focused on the ship drawing everyone’s interest. It was a large trading vessel with a high square stern and three tall masts. On its side, traced in bright gold paint, was its name:
Verinna
.

A brief wave of disgust penetrated his excitement. Did they really think the Matriarch was susceptible to that sort of flattery? Wasn’t it enough that she was financing this benighted expedition?

But even that couldn’t dim his exultation for long. He swept the circle of his vision along the shore and up to the high point where the Matriarch’s palace stood. The flag at the peak of its tallest tower snapped in the brisk sea breeze. The seagull and star emblem of Ramunna was clear and sharp.

Gevan lowered the tube. He clenched his hands around it, his heart pounding. He’d done it. He’d opened a window to a distant place, just as the chronicles described the ancient wizards doing. He’d proved that no magic was necessary for the feat, only a careful application of natural principles. He’d rediscovered a power that hadn’t been taken from the world, after all. Just lost for a time.

If he could discover the secret of one of the wizards’ powers, he could find them all. It was only a matter of time before his calculations revealed how to shape a lens that would bend light from a previous time into the present. He could learn the secrets of the human body and how to wake its healing powers. He could tap into the forces that would allow him to reach across space and manipulate objects without a touch.

Almost dizzy with the prospect, Gevan sat down and set the window-glass reverently on the workbench. He took out a fresh sheet of paper and picked up his pen. It was vital to record every detail of what he’d done in his notes. He would face enormous opposition when he made his invention public. From the Purifiers, of course, but potentially from many other quarters also. He must be prepared to defend himself with the power of reason and truth against those who feared what the return of the wizards’ powers might mean.

Some of his colleagues at the University shared many of his beliefs. He would start with them. They’d demand full documentation, with all the information they’d need to duplicate his work. As soon as he had that ready, he’d present it to them.

And then, after enough people knew of the window-glass and understood its principles that the knowledge would not be lost even if he were silenced, he would go to the Matriarch. She would listen. Weren’t her dearest hopes pinned on finding some way to revive the lost power of the wizards? Even if he couldn’t yet offer the healing power needed to give her the daughter she so desperately desired, she would see the potential the window-glass offered.

Gevan’s hand paused. Perhaps the window-glass could be of immediate use to her. The peace with Marvanna was fragile. There was always the danger that their larger, stronger neighbor to the north might attack again. How much of an advantage would accrue to a commander who could spy on enemy troops without going near them? Or to a naval captain who could identify a hostile ship from leagues away?

He smiled. Yes, that was the way to gain the Matriarch’s support. Once he convinced her, he wouldn’t need to fear the Purifiers. They didn’t yet have as much power in Ramunna as they did in Marvanna. The Matriarch had little use for their fanaticism.

Her favor would shield him. Her patronage would allow him to go forward with his research at a greatly increased pace. Perhaps, in time, he would learn how to grant her desire. If so, the rewards she would shower upon him would surpass even the wealth and privilege the ancient wizards had enjoyed.

Gevan reached out and stroked the cold metal of the window-glass in wonder. Then he bent with renewed industry to his notes.

Two

N
irel eased her foot to the leaf-littered forest floor with the rolling motion she’d worked so hard to master. It settled without a sound as she shifted her weight onto it. The grazing doe didn’t even flick an ear. She glanced back at Shonika, who inclined her head a fraction. Nirel glowed. From Shonika, that was high praise indeed.

One more silent step and she was in place. The soft breeze penetrating the thick woods blew the musky scent of deer into her nostrils. Bit by bit she lifted her bow, with movements designed to mimic the light random flutter of a leaf or the hop of a feeding bird. She’d nocked her arrow when they’d first entered the forest. Now she drew it back until her arms cried out with the strain. The doe was no farther away than the hide targets she’d hit many times before. She sighted carefully, with one eye as Shonika had taught her, on the spot just behind the doe’s front leg where a single arrow could bring her down. Then she made the adjustments for distance and wind which would result in the arrow’s arcing path ending exactly where she wanted.

She shot her eyes sideways. Shonika lowered her lashes. Nirel resisted the urge to draw a deep breath that would throw off her aim and perhaps alert the deer. Instead she took a shallow, soundless breath through open lips. Her pulse hammered in her ears. What if she missed? She’d waited so long for this chance. She’d scarcely been able to contain her delight when Shonika had indicated that Nirel should take the lead. It had been days since the hunters had made a kill. There were still plenty of supplies on the ship, but hardtack and salted cod quickly grew tiresome, and the members of Ozor’s band were heartily sick of them. Shonika could have won her companions’ approval with a gift of fresh venison, but she’d given the opportunity to Nirel. For a moment the weight of her trust nearly overwhelmed Nirel. She hesitated, and her arrow’s point slid a hair out of alignment.

Nirel scowled and nudged it back. Fear was foolish. She’d trained long and hard to acquire skill with the bow. She wouldn’t miss. And if by some ill chance she didn’t bring down the deer, she would face the consequences. She’d dealt with far worse than a little disappointed mockery.

The deer stepped forward, stretching its neck toward an enticing patch of greenery. Its heart lay open and vulnerable. Nirel corrected her aim, held her breath, and released her arrow.

It slammed home. The doe jerked, throwing up its head, eyes rolling. It bolted, but before it had gone a dozen strides it faltered Within another dozen it was stumbling. Its knees buckled and it crashed to the ground.

Nirel lowered her bow. She stared, panting, at the fallen deer. It kicked. Blood spurted around the arrow shaft.

Shonika put a firm hand on Nirel’s shoulder. “Finish it off.”

Nirel nodded. She drew her knife and went to kneel by the doe’s throat, extended as it gasped for breath. It thrashed with renewed vigor as she came close, then stilled again.

This was no different than slaughtering a chicken or goat, as she’d done many times back home on the farm. Just larger and tougher. She’d honed her knife that morning; it was adequate to the task. Nirel pinched her lips together and drew the knife across the doe’s throat in one quick motion.

Blood gushed out, but Nirel had known to position herself out of the way. The deer went limp. The scarlet flood soaked into the dirt.

Shonika came up behind her. She bent over and dipped her fingers in the blood. Nirel turned, curious. Shonika had never done anything like this with the deer Nirel had seen her shoot.

“Hold still.” Shonika traced her fingers across Nirel’s face, smearing the doe’s blood in a long streak from her forehead to her nose, and another on each cheek. “There.” She regarded her handiwork for a moment. Nirel felt the warm blood cool, and resisted the urge to wipe away a trickle that ran down her jaw. “Let’s get to work.”

The secret to good-tasting venison was to dress the animal quickly, before gasses from the intestines contaminated the meat. Nirel had helped Shonika with the task many times before. She took the water skin from her belt, drank a long swig, and made the first cut.

A few minutes after they started, Shonika glanced over her shoulder and froze.

“Wh—” Nirel started, but Shonika lifted her fingers and jerked her head. Nirel followed her gaze.

A half-grown fawn stepped out from between the trees. Its spotted coat blended with the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. It lifted its head, nostrils flaring wide, and hesitated a moment before coming a few steps closer. Its soft brown eyes gazed at Nirel as she knelt with her knife deep in its dam’s gut.

In one smooth movement Shonika drew her bow from her back, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. The fawn fell, the feathered shaft protruding from its chest.

A wordless sound of protest escaped Nirel’s lips before she pressed them shut. Shonika shot her a disgusted look as she went to cut the fawn’s throat.

When Shonika returned to dump the fawn’s body beside the doe’s, Nirel was back at work, making the delicate cuts necessary to free the entrails from the carcass without severing them and releasing their contents. She didn’t look up as Shonika sliced into the fawn’s belly.

“Suckling fawn’s good eating. Ozor will be pleased,” Shonika said as she worked.

“Mmm.” Nirel knew it was true. She’d eaten kid plenty of times and greatly enjoyed the mild, tender meat.

They worked side by side in silence. At length, Shonika spoke again. “It was too young to be weaned. It would have died anyway.”

“I know.” Nirel concentrated on her task. “I’m not some sentimental city girl.”