Sanctuary - Lynn Abbey [236]
“Not at all,” Molin protested. “You’re wrong. I’ll be gone from here before any of what I’ve foreseen comes to pass. I’ll be gone. I won’t die here. I won’t—
“I won’t die here. I won‘t—”
Grandfather slumped sideways on the pallet. His whole body trembled.
“Momma!” Bec shouted, because he’d heard her lurking at the bottom of the ladder, waiting for Grandfather to finish his story. “Momma! He’s dying, Momma! Grandfather’s dying!”
The box was a masterpiece of woodcarvers’ art, inlaid with stones carefully chosen to complement the wood grain. The scrollwork vines and leaves were so lifelike that Cauvin expected to hear them rustle when he touched them. Yet for all its advanced beauty, the box was kin to the boxes he’d received from Sinjon at the Broken Mast and dug out of the bazaar dirt. When he place his thumbs on the familiar spots, the vines and scrolls separated, and the lid opened.
“What’s in it?”
“What has my friend the Torch been hiding all these years? Where does he keep his gold?”
The first voice was Soldt’s, the second belonged to Arizak per-Mizhur, lord of the Irrune—the man who had brought Cauvin to this bright, sunlit room on the southeast corner of the palace.
“Nothing—” Cauvin began, because in such a box a scrap of dirty parchment was nothing.
Then, before Cauvin could mention the paper, his nostrils filled with the scents of flowers, spices, and the sea. With the scents came … memory. He knew where the Torch’s treasure was—all the places, all the gold, the jewels, and the names of Arizak’s mistresses—all of them. To say nothing of the thousand other secrets the Torch had hoarded.
Cauvin braced himself. The myths of the Empire and Ilsig alike were lousy with men who’d lost themselves to gods or sorcerers but the assault on his sense of self didn’t happen. He was simply the Torch’s heir, beneficiary of property, not personality. Cauvin figured he’d need the rest of his natural lifetime to sort through his inheritance, but he could already feel a difference.
How else had he known—not guessed, but froggin’ sure known—that he remained himself?
“What about it, Cauvin?” Soldt asked. “I see something in there.”
Cauvin unfolded the parchment. “It says, ‘Fortify the grass.’”
Soldt’s comment was, “Odd,” while Arizak, a true herdsman, said, “Only a complete fool builds forts on grass.”
But Cauvin remembered his friend—the Torch’s friend—Hakiem in a hundred different conversations, all of which ended with the same sentiment: We certainly fortified the grass today, didn’t we? He hid a smile behind his hand and returned the paper to the box.
“We’re done here,” he told the other two men.
“He was a strange one,” Arizak said, leading them slowly from the room.
The Irrune used a padded crutch to get around and never put any weight on his heavily wrapped foot. Cauvin wondered if there even was a foot within the bandages. His inheritance quickened, and he recalled the night when he—or rather the Torch—sat by Arizak’s shoulder, holding his hand while a physician summoned from Caronnne performed the amputation.
This would take some getting used to.
He missed the start of Arizak’s eulogy.
—“To call him friend was to give your fate to a summer storm. Are you certain the Hand invades Sanctuary from below? All this burrowing in rock and hardened sand, it would not be a problem if we dwelt in tents. Live in a tent, and your enemies can only come at you like the wind.”
Cauvin waited until he was certain Arizak had finished speaking—the inheritance let him know that the froggin’ Irrune never interrupted their froggin’ chief—before saying, “We’re sure. And the Hand’s not just below the palace, Sakkim—” that was the froggin’ Irrune word for sheep-shite leader-of-many-chosen-by-all. “The Hand’s in the palace, too. I saw your son, Naimun, speaking to the very bastard Soldt killed with his arrow.”
Arizak hobbled away, saying nothing. Cauvin guessed he’d froggin’ offended the man. There was another Irrune word, Bassomething, for the Sakkim’s sons but just because