Read Ison of the Isles for Free Online Page A

bandhota,” he finally said.
    There was a long pause. “I can tell you have a story,” the Grey Man said at last. “My name is Auster. Could I offer you some hospitality? A cup of tea, perhaps?”
    They readily accepted this invitation. Auster led them across the cloister to a doorway under one of the arches. Inside the building, the quiet, sparsely furnished corridor reminded Nathaway even more strongly of a college. They walked by a group of young Lashnurai dressed like Auster, whose conversation fell silent as they passed.
    “What is this place?” Nathaway asked.
    “This is the Pavilion,” Auster said. “We have a little community here.”
    “Are you scholars?”
    Auster seemed pleased at the description. “Why yes, I suppose you could say that. We are healers, historians, guardians of the stone. We strive to keep our ancient traditions alive.”
    Nathaway felt as if he had stumbled on a priceless discovery. A seat of ancient learning, here in this secretive city, utterly unknown to the outside world. Perhaps no other Inning had seen this place. Certainly, no other Inning had had the key to it that he did, coming as bandhota to the Heir of Gilgen. He felt elated, awed at his good fortune.
    They passed a door standing ajar, through which Nathaway glimpsed bound volumes on shelves, and another where racks of seedlings stood under a window. A third room, lined with cabinets full of tiny drawers, had a medicinal scale on a marble counter that looked like it came from an apothecary shop in Fluminos.
    He was burning with questions by the time Auster led them up a staircase and paused before a tall, closed door. The Grey Man knocked on it, listening for some response; then he signalled them to wait. “I want to introduce you to someone,” he explained, then disappeared inside.
    When they were alone in the hall, Nathaway turned to Spaeth. “This place—this institution—did you know it was here?”
    She shook her head. “Goth never mentioned it.”
    “I wish I could spend a month here,” Nathaway said. “It’s utterly undiscovered. I could write a treatise.”
    Before long the door cracked open again and Auster gestured them inside. They stepped into an office whose walls were crowded with artworks—botanical sketches, complex astronomical diagrams, coloured maps—whose antiquity made Nathaway’s throat go dry. A tall, austere woman rose from a table spread with ledger books. Her face was strong-featured, with sharp, intelligent eyes, and her coarse grey hair was pulled back in an untidy bun. She looked around sixty.
    Auster said, “Allow me to introduce you to Agave, the namenda of our community. I’m sorry, what’s your name, my dear?”
    “Spaeth,” she said. “Spaeth Dobrin.”
    Agave was studying her face with a fierce intensity. She held out her hands, and after a slight hesitation, Spaeth reached out to clasp them. The older woman’s eyes fell for a moment to Spaeth’s arm, where the false scar from the attempt to cure Jory made it look as if she had given dhota. “You say you are Goran’s daughter?” she said.
    “No,” Spaeth said. “He made me, seven years ago. From his own flesh. For sex.”
    Agave dropped Spaeth’s hands and stepped involuntarily back. “That is so like him,” she said. Her voice was pregnant with anger.
    Defensively, Spaeth said, “You don’t know him. You can’t judge him.”
    “Oh, but I do know him,” Agave said bitterly. “Too well.”
    “You do?” Now Spaeth’s curiosity overcame her resentment. “How?”
    Diplomatically, Auster interrupted, “Perhaps we should sit down for a chat. Let me put the kettle on for some tea.”
    He ushered Spaeth and Nathaway into chairs, but Agave was still too disturbed to sit, and roamed the space between them and the window, her lean face restless with memories.
    “I knew him years ago, in his youth,” she said. “Oh, he was a charming man then. Handsome, yes, but shallow as a pie pan, promiscuous as a cat. You