“Shh. They say it sings in ecstasy, Kessie.” Above them in the sky, the singing faded into a whisper of sound, the wings stopped beating. A black speck planed away, trailing a line of misty smoke beyond the walls of the palace.
“I don’t believe that,” she wept, raising her stained face to look at the fading trail of smoke. “I think it sings in agony. It would scream if it could.” She trembled, suddenly aware of her own pain, wanting not to think of that, wanting to forget, to think of anything else instead.
“Pamra used to use the flame-bird as a parable in recruitment homilies,” she chattered, letting the first thing that came to mind flow from her mouth like water. “She tried to liken the Awakeners to the mother flame-bird, sacrificing itself for its children. It wasn’t a successful parable at all. Too painful. The last year or so she’d been using one about the Candy Tree which worked better. She was a marvelous recruiter.”
His mouth turned down, reminded now of the cause of all their recent pain. “Where is she, do you think?”
“Oh, Tharius, I hope she got away. I hope she’s safe somewhere, if anywhere can be called safe. Perhaps there was enough time before Ilze got onto her trail for her to find safety.”
“Or the River.”
“I think not, somehow. There was a toughness about her. A kind of impenetrable naivete but tough, nonetheless.”
“The last of the Dons,” said Tharius. “My great-great grandchild. I had such hopes for her, somehow. I thought she might be another you, another Kesseret … “
“I know. I know you wondered about her, cared for her. That’s why I kept close track of her. Though not close enough, it seems. She came very close to ruining everything.”
“How could you keep track of her at all without attracting notice? Superiors don’t normally interest themselves in novices or junior Awakeners. Not as I remember.”
“Oh, my dear. You of all people to ask such a question, when you taught me every subterfuge I know. I kept track of her through my servant, Threnot. Threnot always goes veiled, and she goes everywhere. And sometimes it was Threnot herself, and sometimes it was me, listening to a recruitment parable or watching someone at the worker pits. I spent a lot of time watching Pamra.”
He shook his head, drawing her closer. “Risky, love. But kind of you in this case. Great-great-granddaughter Pamra. Well. I hate her causing you this agony, but it wasn’t the child’s fault. Perhaps we can locate her, provide some kind of assistance. It would be sensible to do that. I don’t want the Laugher to get her. I don’t want the fliers to get her. Not alone that she’s kin; more important, it would set them off again. When I heard it was she who had started all this, I thought how ironic it was-my own great-great-grandchild, without knowing it, coming close to betraying us. I’d like to help her, since she’s the last. Not that the intervening generations were much to brag about.”
She ticked them off on her bandaged fingers. “Your son, Birald. Your granddaughter, Nathile bit of a fishwife, that one, so I’ve heard. Pamra talked to Jelane about her unpleasant grandma. And then your great-grandson, Fulder Don … “
“Useless. Like a piece of fungus. AH sweaty and damp. Not much of an artist, either, I’m afraid.”
“And finally your great-great-granddaughter, Pamra Don. Something about that one, Tharius, love. Something more to her than to the others. A kind of shining, sometimes.”
“Awakener, heretic, and now fugitive,” he said bleakly. “The best of the lot, and what an end to come to.”
She squeezed his hand. “Old Birald wasn’t that bad, actually.”
“You knew him?” He was astonished at this.
“I knew everyone in Baristown. I knew Birald before I came to the Tower. I was twenty then. He was a couple of years younger than I, a stiff, fussy youth, always looking over his shoulder. He ended as a crotchety old man who carved leaves and flowers on door lintels, holding on to the artist’s caste by his fingernails. Oh, God, Tharius, but speaking of fingernails, my hands hurt … “