by Melanie Rawn
Elomar, who fished for sport and not for a living, declined to be taught the spell lest it spoil future fun.
No magic had been necessary to convince the pilots to take on passengers. Taig arranged it with known Rising sympathizers. Cailet was heartened by the willingness of the Doyannis Blood to help renegade Mages, especially as one of their Name was on the Council. But mere mention of Veliria Doyannis made her distant cousins spit in absolute unison. Cailet instantly deduced that the woman was not beloved.
The reasons for this were many, but heading the list was the tax on fishing nets she had authored. It had the specific purpose of forcing The Waste’s branch of the family toward insolvency, at which point she would graciously lend them money—and eventually absorb the business into the main Doyannis Web.
“When you win,” said the cousins’ grandmother with a fierce smile as she bid Cailet farewell, “pay us back by sending us Veliria.”
Cailet grinned and nodded; so much for Councilmember Doyannis. Besides, from what she’d learned about the woman’s tantrum at the inheritance hearing, Sarra would enjoy waving her good-bye when she shipped out for The Waste.
Sarra. . . .
Where was she? That Collan was still with her, Cailet did not doubt for an instant. While this gave her some solace—Col had been on the road most of his life, after all, and would take good care of Sarra—she found herself painfully missing both of them. It wasn’t just worry over their safety. It was an emptiness inside her, a diminishing of herself.
Which was ridiculous, she reflected as she stared out at the rainswept gray sea. She of all people could scarcely feel lonely—not with the knowledge and memories of four other people to keep her company.
She’d had time to think some of it through while at the Shipwrecked Sailor. Perhaps if she’d done it earlier, she might have averted a disaster or two, or known to do something different in reacting to danger.
Or traced an appropriately jagged path to her goals, rather than the straight line Gorsha deplored.
In Longriding the Bequest had been too new within her. She’d shied from thoughts and memories not her own, frightened that they would subsume what remained of Cailet. Now she was beginning to understand that what she was, she remained. Other lives did not blend into or blot out hers. Instead, she would think a thing, or remember a lesson from school, and it would connect with other knowledge—like the derivation of Mikleine and Maklyn the other night. She knew things without having to go through the trouble of learning them.
It was a little like having swallowed a whole library that instantly cross-referenced itself in her head.
The trick would be to learn how to use the knowledge. And that would only come with new experiences.
The knowledge was one thing. The magic was different. Spells, Wards, words, gestures, gradations of power, subtleties of casting and controlling—these she must explore one by one. And all this put her in the curious position of having to learn what she already knew. The whole process would take much more time than she could spare now.
The list of things to learn was as lengthy as the list of discovered power; each grew apace, and pretty much in proportion to the other. With every action she analyzed for possible alternatives, spells popped into mind. If the duty of a Mage Guardian was to protect freedom of choice, the Mage Captal was the living repository of more choices than any one person should ever have to deal with.
A sense of humor, however, gave her no choice at all but to laugh at her predicament. If the humor was tinged with bitterness . . . well, at least that emotion belonged to her alone.
“Your pardon, Captal,” said one of the Doyannis pilots as he squeezed past her to the hatch. She smiled, shrugged, and returned to her thoughts.
Emotions continued to frighten her. Some came in response to her own feelings—that glimpse, for instance, of a lovely young woman sadly rejecting a young man who had become a Mage. She understood it now as a compassionate gift, an attempt to ease her hurt by showing her that in this pain she was not alone. But while she could accept knowledge and all the benefits of four lives’ experience, she had to feel for herself or she would go mad.
The alternative terrified her. If any given person or situation prompted joy, anger, humor, disgust, tenderness, hate—how could she know if the reaction was her own? If she found a man attractive, would it be her own response—or Alin’s? If she was similarly attracted to a woman, would it be Gorsha’s doing?
And what if all four were still somehow aware inside her as Gorsha seemed to be? What if she had to live the rest of her life with them watching her?
She needed Sarra and Collan. Not because she had known them before the Bequest, but because she loved them. She, Cailet, loved them; not Gorynel Desse or Alin Ostin or Lusath Adennos or Tamos Wolvar. The latter pair hadn’t even known Sarra and Col. Alin, though fond of both, had truly loved no one in this world but his mother, his sister Miram, and Valirion Maurgen. As for Gorsha, he felt proud and exasperated tenderness for Sarra, and nothing at all for Collan.
But Cailet loved them.
Saints, how she needed them now. They, at least, were hers.
15
Collan woke to the aroma of fresh hot bread.
Peering out from under the coverlet—plain red wool on this smaller bed—he inhaled deeply. His stomach growled. Bread, strips of sizzling roast duck, and hot something-else with a fine nip to it—wine? He pushed back the covers, eager to investigate.
And stared in befuddlement at his right arm. And his left arm. He’d gone to bed naked. He had no fear of discovery because she’d amply indicated that she would sooner look at a Wraithenbeast than at him. Now he wore a snowy silken nightshirt bunched down around his knees, full sleeves tied loosely at the wrists with white silk ribbons. Similar ribbons trailed down his chest from an open collar trimmed with lace.
As he shifted again, something slid off the bed. He looked over the side, squinting—the fire was still strong and warm, but the light didn’t reach far into the alcove and the single window was wrapped in fog. On the rug was a heavy splash of rich brocade, a green-and-gold robe lined in thick brown fur.
Magic?
No, someone didn’t want him to freeze, was all.
Or starve. Seductive scents were making his empty stomach plead for sustenance. He dragged the robe from the floor, stuck his arms into the sleeves, and discovered leather slippers—also fur-lined—peeking from under the bed.
Just his size, too.
Wriggling blistered toes inside the silky softness, he stood up and stretched until his spine and shoulders cracked. Running both hands back through his hair, he ambled over to the fireplace. Stoked with half a tree that he didn’t recall putting there, it blazed merry invitation to sit and partake of the waiting breakfast. He’d been right: duck, big thick slices of it. There were also chunks of some gloriously smelly cheese and two loaves of fresh bread wrapped in a cloth. The plates, utensils, goblets, and pitcher of mulled spiced wine were all made of gold.
He then slid behind the carved screen guarding the other alcove. On a stand below a shaving-size mirror at exactly the right height for him were a basin of warm water, soap and a razor, two combs, and two toothbrushes. He used the chamber pot (which emptied down a lidded hole in the wall, next to which was a fragrant spray of herbs), scraped several days’ worth of beard from his cheeks and chin, ran a comb through his tangled coppery curls, and postponed the toothbrush until after breakfast.
He was just about to settle down in one of the chairs when he realized that of the clothing spread out to dry the night before, there was no sign. Nor of their knives, shoes, or even pocket change.
Collan chewed his lip for a moment, then went to the door. The massive iron dead bolt couldn’t be opened from the outside. At the window, heavy fog limited visibility to the edge of the outside sill. The lock was still in place. Entry was impossible.
Therefore, so w
as breakfast.
And this ankle-length Grand Duke of Domburronshir thing he wore.
After a moment’s consternation, he shrugged. In a world rife with interruptions by friend, foe, or innocent bystander, only a fool turned his back on offered comforts.
It would be churlish not to share. So he approached the monstrous tapestried bed to invite Sarra to breakfast.
For a moment he wondered if she was still in there. Feather mattress and velvet quilt and silk sheets billowed seven feet wide and seven feet long. Discerning which lump was Sarra proved difficult, for amid it all was no sign of a blonde head. Col poked at random, finally rewarded with an inelegant grunt, a rustling of covers, and a pair of black eyes blinking owlishly at him.
“Morning,” he drawled. “Before you look around, be warned. All is not as it was last night.”
“Huh?”
Playing lady’s maid, he picked up the robe—turquoise brocade lined with black fur—from the foot of the bed. “This is the least of it,” he added as Sarra’s chin descended toward her chest—also covered in white linen, dangling silk ribbons, and lace. “All our own things are gone—and I do mean gone.”
“What?”
Not exactly articulate of a morning, he thought, but at least not grumpy. He detested women who woke surly.
She swam to the edge of the bed, and halted as abruptly as Collan had on catching sight of what she wore. She looked up at him, down at her sleeve, and up at him again, comically bewildered.
“Here, put this on,” he said. As she slid into the robe and stood, tugging at the nightshirt’s sleeves, he added, “Don’t forget your slippers.”
Sarra wandered the room in silence, kicking hems out of her way with every step. She spent quite a while inspecting the window, then the door—the lintel seemed of special interest—and finally the gigantic stone hearth. Seating himself in one of the chairs, Col drank wine and waited. At length Sarra sat opposite him, picked up a two-tined golden fork, and dug in.
“So?” Col asked after they’d demolished most of the food and he had the energy to be curious again. “I mean, I know what I think, but—”
Sarra settled more snugly into her robe—looking vastly fetching in it, and as if she’d been born to such riches, which of course she had—and sat back with a solid gold goblet in hand. “I assume you noticed the sigils, the stitching, and the herb wreaths at the windows.”
“The what, where?”
She rolled the cup between dainty palms. “Nobody could have entered this room, Col. Yet all our things are gone and all this is here instead. An obvious impossibility.”
Col considered. “What are you not saying?”
Sarra shrugged.
“You’re still not saying it.” He counted to five.
“Sarra. . . .”
“We haven’t been harmed. In fact, all has been arranged for our comfort. Fire, food, warm clothing, beds—”
“You can get that at any decent inn.”
“—and everything that could possibly be of harm has been taken away.”
“Including my pants?”
Sarra drew a long breath. “If you’re through being facetious—”
“Go on.” He waved generously. “I’m listening.”
“Only because you can’t explain this, and I can. The carvings, the herbs—”
Col snorted and dug his fork into a cube of cheese—a bit emphatically, to be sure. “You’re going all Mageborn on me again.”
She held the goblet up. “This is the simplest of the spells in this room. The sigils stamped into the gold are charms for health. Orlin Renne had one something like this, made of silver.”
“What about the herbs?”
“Protection against outside dangers.”
“So what happened to our clothes?”
“Do you ever sleep without knives at hand—at the very least? Neither do I, not since I left Roseguard. Yet last night we both did. Frankly, I’m surprised we didn’t throw our weapons out the window.”
“If you say so. What else?”
Her brows arched. “What did you think when you woke?”
“That breakfast smelled delicious.” He finished the cheese and washed it down with wine.
“No nervousness? No wondering how this could be?”
“Well, naturally, I wondered about it. But—” He stopped abruptly.
“You see? Your first impulse would be to go charging out of here demanding to know where your clothes are and what’s going on—and you didn’t.” She pointed to his feet. “Look at your slippers.”
“Now, that’s enough! Next you’re going to tell me they’re spelled to keep me from walking out the door!”
“No. The embroidery is a pattern commonly woven into blankets, to conserve warmth. The robes probably have something stitched in them as well, though I don’t recognize many of the symbols.”
“And I suppose somewhere on the fireplace is a ‘perpetual flame’ squiggle?”
“No,” Sarra said calmly. “It would have been burning when we came in. We had to supply the fire. The hearth simply makes sure there’s fuel.”
Col filled his winecup to the brim, with the impression he was going to need it. “What you’re telling me is we’re surrounded by magic.”
“Very old magic. The headboard of my bed, the weave of the blankets, the cups—the chair and table, for all I know.” She raked back her hair. “There’s no other explanation, Col. This room, if not this whole house, has been spelled and Warded by a very powerful Mage.”
“That’s—”
“—crazy?” she interrupted. “Come on, you’re a Minstrel. Surely you know an ancient ballad or two about magic houses.”
“Not that I recall offhand—and don’t tell me St. Kiy Herself spelled the wine for forgetfulness, either!” He got to his feet. “Not to slight your arcane knowledge, but I’m sure there’s a logical explanation that doesn’t involve magic. And I’ll prove it to you.”
“How?”
After taking a large gulp of wine, he said, “I’m going to go find whoever’s responsible and thank her.”
Sarra gestured gracefully to the door. “Go right ahead.”
With the strong sensation that she knew something else he didn’t, Collan picked his robe up out of the way of his slippers and went to the door. It opened readily enough, iron dead bolt sliding silently aside. The door across the hall was closed, just as he’d left it last night. He started down the stairs, descending carefully due to his unfamiliarity with voluminous garments.
Four steps, eight, a dozen. He fixed his gaze on the landing, feeling chill air waft up between the iron risers. He kept moving—ten more steps, twenty.
And didn’t get anywhere at all.
He stopped, frowning. He turned, climbed exactly three steps, and was on the wooden balcony again. He swung around and began the descent once more.
Twenty-five carefully counted steps later, he went back up the three risers and returned to the hearthside.
Sarra had filled his goblet again, whether from thoughtfulness, sympathy, or I-told-you-so, he didn’t much care.
Col drank, then accused, “You knew.”
“I suspected. Nothing can get in. But we can’t get out, either.”
He stared down at his companion—who was beginning to resemble a Blooded First Daughter of considerable means taking her ease after a strenuous day’s hunt. All she lacked was a Senison hound resting its adoring head on her knee.
“What happened just now?” she asked.
“The stairs multiplied.”
“Hmm. Let’s go have a look in the other room.”
Lacking a fire, the room was cold and their robes were more than welcome. Awkwardly, Col adjusted his, figuring there must be a trick to moving in the thing without tripping. He began to appreciate the work it took for a woman to look graceful in a floor-length gow
n.
The trunk was Sarra’s goal, the only other feature of the room being an intricate tapestry of cobwebs. Besides, the thing practically begged to be opened. Sarra circled it twice, careful not to touch, then crouched to inspect the iron lock—which, after a shine-up, would have looked at home on the gates of Ryka Court.
“Fork,” she muttered, stood, and vanished into the bedchamber.
Somehow, Col didn’t feel like touching the thing either. Not that he really believed any of this. All right, then, how do you explain the stairs? He went to the fog-misted window and tried to open it. The bolt had rusted shut and wouldn’t budge. He supposed he could break the panes—but they were thick, bubbly glass that argued extreme age, and somehow he couldn’t bring himself to smash some ancient crafter’s work.
Or was the cottage protecting itself by preventing him from harming the window glass?
Another few thoughts like that, and he’d—
“Fork,” said Sarra again from behind him, and he turned to find the lock being picked. After a moment’s fiddling there was a loud click. The golden two-tined fork disappeared into a pocket of the robe, and Sarra folded the brocade more comfortably under her knees before hefting open the trunk’s lid.
Revealed was nothing more sinister than a pile of old leather-bound books.
She leafed through one, a smile of delight on her face. “Col! Look at this! Aida Mirre’s Natural History of Lenfell! Do you know how rare this is? There can’t be twenty copies in the whole world!”
Col picked up another volume and blew dust off it. Sarra sneezed and glanced up irritably; he hardly noticed in his sudden fascination. Reverently, he opened a book of Saints’ lives that was not just illuminated, but luminous.