by Melanie Rawn
“Do you like old books?” Sarra asked.
He turned pages gently. “Songbooks, mainly. But the Minstrel’s life doesn’t make for keeping a library.”
“I had a huge library at Roseguard. History, biography, Magelore—most of them on the forbidden list.”
“How’d you find them? And where’d you learn Pierga’s Art, anyway?”
She shrugged, unrepentant. “Few people know what’s in their collections, if the collection’s big enough. And you’re right, this isn’t the first lock I’ve picked.”
“You stole their books?”
“Nobody ever missed them. And I needed them.”
“My, what highly individualized ethics,” he said sweetly.
She pulled a face at him. “Very funny.”
They settled down happily to investigate the treasures. Neither knew how long they spent exploring and sharing their finds. At length the trunk was empty but for one volume—a huge, heavy tome practically falling apart. Sarra lifted it gingerly and set it on the floor between them. Another sneeze resulted when she opened it.
Col read easily upside down, though the words were not printed but handwritten in a close and spidery style.
“‘Remove entrails, rinse, and reserve . . . combine with three parts red wine no more than two harvestings old—’” He grinned. “Sarra! It’s a cookbook!”
But pleasure had faded from her eyes, and she turned pages quickly, reading no more than a few sentences of each. Finally she placed both hands flat on the aged, yellowing vellum.
“No,” she said solemnly. “It’s a grimoire. A book of spells.”
Col laughed. “Love philters and charms against snakebite?”
“Miryenne’s Holy Candle!” she exclaimed. “What’s your problem? You’ve been Warded forever, you’ve been taken through Ladders, you know a dozen Mage Guardians—you even know the Captal! And—”
“Sarra,” he said patiently, “it’s a book of recipes.”
“—and you’re sitting in the middle of a house that positively reeks of magic! How can you deny that magic exists?”
“I don’t deny it. I just don’t like it. Stop bristling like an old boar sow. It’s one of your most unattractive traits.”
“One of dozens,” she snapped, and turned to the book’s first page. “No magic? Listen to this!”
You are welcome here, Wayfarer.
Shelter and sleep safe and warm.
Rest within. These Wards protect you
From inner strife and outer harm.
This is the Crossroads of St. Feleris
She of Kindness, She Who Heals.
This house will serve, defend, and shield you
From all but what your heart conceals.
“What the hell does that mean?” Col demanded.
“There’s more, if you’ll shut up long enough to listen.”
He sat back on his heels. “Go ahead. I collect examples of bad poetry.”
Pausing for a brief glare, she continued.
No copper coin, no silver tribute,
No gold or jewel in payment ply.
No key unlocks the doors below you.
No spell betwixt the stones and sky.
“So how do we get out?” Col scooted around so he could read, too, tucking the warm robe around his feet. A slim finger pointed to the last verse. The writing was odd and the spelling even odder. He read aloud.
The only coin this house will treasure,
The only key to these locked doors,
Is only Truth. You, Mageborn Stranger,
Hold coin and key. The truth is yours.
“I’m not Mageborn,” he said, “so I guess that means I’m stuck here forever. With you. How wonderful.”
Closing the book gently, she began to replace the other volumes in the trunk. “It’s getting cold in here.”
“Sarra, tell me what you know!”
She closed the grimoire. “It’s rather simple, really. We’re in a Mageborn safe house.”
He listened in bewildered silence as she explained. Set up long ago, as evidenced by the ancient sigils, it was neutral territory. Nothing that could work harm was permitted within; nothing could harm the inhabitants from without. Food, clothing, warmth, and refuge were provided. The only payment the house would accept, the only key to unlocking the door—and the spells—was the gift of Truth.
“Perhaps it means knowledge to add to the grimoire,” Sarra mused. “Or maybe Truth has it own magic, and that replenishes the house. Or maybe once Truth is spoken, the house has some sort of power over you. Or—”
“That’s enough,” Col said firmly. “I’ve heard all the ‘perhapses’ and ‘maybes’ I care to. Not to mention spells, Wards, powers, and endless stairs.” He saw Sarra give him a Look. “I know, I know—what about the food? Where did the clothes and firewood come from? There’s a million questions to ask but only one that counts. How do we get out of here?”
She ran a fingertip along the trunk’s dusty rim. “The Crossroads of St. Feleris,” she said meditatively. “Crossroads are traditionally very powerful.”
“How do we get out?” Col repeated.
“As neither of us has any magic to offer, presumably by telling the Truth.”
He got up and went to the window. The fog had thinned some, but the view was not promising. The hills seemed more distant than he recalled, more forbidding. Almost threatening. Perhaps the magic here was losing its power against the dark.
He faced Sarra again. “Whatever makes this place work, it’s fading. Downstairs it doesn’t work at all. Except for the trunk, this room’s empty. The one across the hall may be all the magic this house has left.”
She was quiet for some time. Then: “You want to break the spells.”
“Can it be done?”
“I don’t want to try. Weak or not, there’s magic here, Col. Do you want to risk a backlash? Have you any idea what might happen if we tamper with it?”
He gave a shrug designed to casually dismiss danger. Not sure he’d succeeded, he said, “Whatever happens, how bad can it be?”
“Do you really want to find out?” Sarra pulled the robe tight around her, as if a sudden draft had swept the room. “Well? Are you going to go first, or shall I?”
Huh? “You don’t have to tell me your ‘truth.’ Just the house.”
“Oh, by all means,” she agreed with a grimace. “We’ll stand in opposite corners and whisper to the walls. What is it about this that makes you so angry, Collan?”
He was angry? Sarra was practically shooting sparks with those big black eyes of hers. “I don’t like being trapped.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then why can’t we—”
“Because I know enough about magic to know I have no intention of trying to break it. So—you first, or me?”
The truth. “Such as?”
The milk-smooth brow creased slightly. “What do you mean?”
“It can’t just be that I hate the smell of roast pork,” he said impatiently. “It has to be something big enough to repay this place for the fire, the food, and the shelter. And that means it has to mean something so important to me that I’ve never told anyone before, right?”
“I—I suppose so.”
“In other words, a secret.”
Sarra gave a little shrug, saying, “I can’t imagine you’d have any worse secrets than an underage seduction or two.” But her gaze skittered away and she seemed nervous all of a sudden.
“Oh, there’s worse.” And if he wanted out of here, he’d have to say it. Out loud. For Sarra and the house to hear.
Only one thing it could be. She didn’t know about him yet. His right shoulder had been turned away from her the day he’d returned by Ladder from Longriding with Alin Ostin dying in his arms. It had been dark in Renig Jail.
&nbs
p; Collan dragged in a breath and jerked loose the belt of his robe. Sarra’s eyes went wide as he tugged the nightshirt down to expose his shoulder.
“I was born a slave,” he said, and waited for the inevitable recoil of disgust.
She surprised him again. Without pity or even compassion, and without moving, she inspected the mark on his shoulder. At length she replied, “No, you weren’t.”
Her lack of reaction sliced his nerves to shreds. “You think I got this put on for the fun of it?”
“No, of course not,” she said, lips thinning. “But it hasn’t been there all your life, you know. You weren’t slaveborn, Collan. If you’d had that mark from birth, it would’ve grown larger as you grew. I’d say you were eleven or twelve when that was done.”
The world sideslipped around him. “Maybe—maybe when I was old enough to try to run away—”
“No. Scraller sets his mark on his slaves the day they’re born.”
“How do you know?”
“Several of them lived at Roseguard. Taguare, Agata Nalle . . . Lady Agatine did a lot of business in The Waste. Over the years, she and Orlin bought and freed as many slaves as Scraller would sell.” She shook her head. “Not that he parted with many.”
“But I remember—” He stopped. What did he remember?
And of what he did recall, what could he trust?
A gray cat he’d named Smoky. One or two other things—songs sung by a woman with a beautiful voice, Scraller’s face, Taguare Veliaz. . . .
Verald and Sela had remembered him. But he had never seen them before in his life.
Or had he?
He remembered the headaches throbbing behind his eyes, pain associated with certain words or bits of melody hummed at odd moments. He remembered how forcing his thoughts to something else made the pain go away.
Had it been cowardice not to face it down? Or self-preservation?
Or a function of the Wards?
He pulled nightshirt and robe back up to cover the mark. “I’m going to try the stairs.”
“Collan—” Holding the heavy grimoire to her chest, she followed him onto the balcony. After a moment’s hesitation, she walked past to the bedchamber. She barely limped now; the healing stitched into the slippers must be working. He realized then that his own feet didn’t hurt much.
From the top of the stairs he carefully counted steps to the landing. Fifteen steps. He started down them, pausing on each one to plant both feet on the wrought iron, like a toddling child or an elderly man unsure of his strength.
After six steps he stopped, turned. The upper hall was exactly six steps above.
But no matter how many times his slippers whispered against iron risers, the landing never got any nearer.
He tried jumping two and three and four steps at a time. He even tried swinging over the banister. All that this maneuver gained him was a sore hip when he fell sideways on the steps.
The house’s magic was not yet satisfied. A truth, but not the Truth.
Col climbed back upstairs. He said nothing as he closed the bedchamber door, knowing Sarra would see failure in his face. But Sarra saw nothing; she was asleep in her chair, golden head drooping to one side, brocade robe wrapped warmly around her, the grimoire in her lap.
Col sat down, stretching his legs toward the fire. In their absence, it had replenished itself and burned as merrily bright as ever.
Magic.
A cottage spelled to provide rest and refuge.
Had this been a tale told him over tavern wine, he would have enjoyed the story and not believed a word. He might even had reworked the simplistic verses in the grimoire and set them to whatever old tune seemed to fit. But his lute was far away, hidden in the Ostin house at Longriding. The only “magic” he could claim was gone.
Not even his truths were real anymore. He wasn’t slaveborn. But if not, who had sold him? Why? Not the woman who sang by the fire; not his own mother. . . .
Was that who she had been?
He stared at the flames as if unWarded truth was written there. Warmth, solace, songs: a hearthfire had always meant that to him. In tavern or roadhouse, modest country manor or grand city residence, give him a fireplace to sit near and a lute to cradle in his arms, and he was happy. A good-looking woman to sing to was always appreciated, too. . . .
No woman had ever sung to him except his mother. Songs were all he had of her, all he could remember.
Some night when you are deep asleep,
And breezes drift amid the trees,
St. Jenavira’s quiet hand
Will open books of memories.
And you will read what’s written there;
Relive the past, recall the dead;
But, on waking, won’t remember
A single thing you did or said.
St. Jenavira’s quiet hand
Will close the books before you read
With open eyes. The past is past.
And memories are kin to dreams.
16
“Where do you think I’ve been?’ Auvry Feiran wearily untied his coif, stripped it off, and ran both hands through his graying hair. “Culling Mages everywhere from Neele to Isodir to Kenroke. It’s filthy work, Glenin.”
She shrugged, uninterested in Mages or the foolish Rising. “I’ve been waiting forever for you to get home. There’s something I have to tell you.”
He poured himself a large glass of brandy as she described what had happened five afternoons ago in this very room. He heard her out, taking short gulps of liquor and wincing a little after each one.
“Well?” she demanded when she’d finished and he still said nothing.
“I’m sure it seemed very real.”
“I tell you I felt it!” She paused. “You mean you didn’t?”
“No.”
“Why not? You’re Mageborn!”
“But not pregnant. Women in your condition are sometimes overly sensitive. I suspect that because you’re an accomplished Mageborn, you’d be even more so.”
“Thank you for making a dubious virtue of my heritage and my training,” she snapped. She paced her sitting room, heels digging into sun-streaked rugs. “I didn’t imagine it and I didn’t feel it because I’m pregnant! On the last day of Seeker’s Moon I was sitting right there watching the sailboats and I felt someone calling to me. It was absolutely unmistakable. It—”
“Were you already using a spell?” he interrupted. “Even something simple, like Warming a cup of tea?”
“What I was doing was planning my son’s future!” Then she stopped and swung around to stare at the daybed, picturing herself there. “No, I was using magic. In a way. Do you remember when we’d walk by the lake and you’d show me how to open myself, to sense the world with magic? I was thinking how wonderful it’ll be to teach my son the same things you taught me and I taught Golonet Doriaz.” All at once the loss and regret were sharper than at any time in the last nine years. “They don’t teach the joy of using magic, you know. The pleasure of accomplishment, yes, but not the laughter. . . .”
“This must change when it comes time to teach your son,” her father said with understanding. “Tell me more about this call you sensed, Glensha.”
“It wasn’t audible, as if there was an actual voice speaking to me. More of a feeling, a need to be somewhere—”
“As if you were being Summoned?” he asked, sharp-voiced now.
She heard the capital he gave the word, the way one said the name of a spell, and turned to face him. “Do you know what it was?”
“I think so. But it may take awhile to explain how I know.”
“Tell me.”
He drew a long breath, then began. “You know that coming into my magic was painful for me. No one knew what it was. There’d never been a Mageborn Feiran, not in all the Generations since The Waste War. Long ago our Name was commo
n in South Lenfell. The Feiran Web owned dozens of mines in the Endless Mountains. But the Domburs coveted what we had, and set out to destroy us. First the price of copper was driven low. We lost money on every ton. Then silver was taxed so high we had to sell at a loss just to sell it at all. Mining accidents scared off many of our workers. The cost of slaves went up whenever we came to buy. The Domburs planned over Generations, not just years. They wanted to wipe us out as a Name as well as a Web. Our sons went unmarried. It became almost impossible for our daughters to find eligible men. Soon they couldn’t even buy husbands. For proud women of a proud Name . . . Glenin, they had to get children off chance-met strangers or go childless. We dwindled to a few hundred, then to a single line that ends with me.”
“No,” Glenin corrected. “It continues with me.”
He smiled. “How proud my mother would’ve been to know you!”
His gratitude hurt. “You’ve never told me any of this.”
“I’m the only one who knows—besides the Domburs, of course. By the time I was born, the Feirans were nearly nothing. Allynis Ambrai certainly thought so. My mother was the second daughter, and she wanted to start the Feiran Name over in the North. Grandmother wished her luck and handed over her dowry. It wasn’t much, but it bought a house on the shores of Maidil’s Mirror—remote even for that region. It was just the four of us, she and I and my two older brothers.”
Glenin sat very abruptly in a chair. “Brothers?”
“Linnar and Garris,” he murmured. “I never knew who my father was, but the magic unquestionably came through his line.”
A father’s Name wasn’t supposed to matter, but not to know his Name at all was a terrible thing to do to a child.
“Mother never married. We three boys never knew who our fathers were and never asked.” When she blinked at the plural, he smiled. “We looked nothing like each other. Linnar was as sunlight-fair as you are, and looked so much like Mother it was if he had no father at all. He was two years older than Garris, who was four years older than I—dark and elegant, the handsomest man I ever saw. By the time I turned fifteen, they were grown men. But even so, I was taller than they, and stronger. . . .” He trailed off, his eyes blanking.