“Thank you.”
“There’s something else. The magus back home didn’t answer my letter to him.”
Contare was silent for a moment. “Are you sure it wasn’t misplaced?”
“I know it wasn’t in the pouch.”
Another brief silence. “I’ll ask Hugh about it—he must have spoken to him while he was there. What’s his name?”
“We just called him Magus Paul. We don’t use last names a lot.”
“Is he Telgard?”
“He’s at least a half-blood—he’s got the blue eyes.” Most of the rogue magi the Circle had captured after the Hippodrome attack had been Adelards, but there had been some Telgards among them.
“All right. I am sending some people to Lakeland to find out more about the ringless ones. While they are there, they will learn more about your village magus.”
“Yes, sir.” Graegor did not ask how.
“Are you all right?”
As usual, his attempt to conceal his agitation hadn’t made it past Contare. “Yes, sir. But if you won’t be needing me, I’d like to go out for a ride once it’s light out.”
“Bad news?”
“Not exactly.”
“Ah.” There was a pause. “Get some sleep first.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Of course, Graegor wouldn’t sleep, which Contare knew perfectly well, but it was always something he said.
There were quills, paper, and ink in the desk in the parlor corner, and Graegor sat at the desk and started to re-read Audrey’s second letter so he could decide how to answer it. The first two lines, however, revealed a problem—his parents wouldn’t like it at all if they knew what Audrey had told him, and obviously they were going to read all his letters, addressed to her or to them, before she did. So he couldn’t be entirely free with what he wrote back to her.
How could he let her know that he’d gotten her second letter? Maybe he could hide a message ... a code. Yes—Audrey would love that. He’d do it even if there was nothing to hide, just because Audrey would have such a good time with it. And designing a secret cipher—one that his sister, but no one else, could decode without knowing beforehand that it even existed—would take him a while. At least until it was time to go to see Tabitha. Go to try to see Tabitha.
The mental exercise, however, proved frustrating, which did nothing for his anxious mood. He didn’t want to disappoint Audrey—especially since he had already disappointed his mother, Jolie, and evidently Tabitha—but he’d never tried to do anything like this before. Every code he invented was either too simple or involved too much math.
I bet Ferogin could do this in his sleep. At that thought, Graegor stabbed the quill into the inkwell and kicked back his chair in a fit of anger.
The silver threads connecting him to Tabitha were suddenly brighter. She’s awake. Had he woken her just now? He hoped not—or if he had, he hoped she didn’t realize it—but at the same time he was relieved that the wait was nearly over. He would see her soon.
He took deliberate time, willing the sun to rise over the dark horizon as he put on his riding boots and heavy cloak, then left the house and doused his water-globe light. He walked down the two streets to the stable that boarded Contare’s horses. The groom on call was asleep on a cot, but the stallion was awake, and whuffed softly at Graegor as he approached.
Again he took deliberate time while getting the horse ready, and when they emerged from the stable, the sky was lighter than it had been before. He didn’t know if Tabitha was at Lord Natayl’s townhouse in the city or at his manor house in the country, and he decided to go to the townhouse and see if Lord Natayl’s carriage-house doors were open. If they were, it meant that the carriage, which was new and too long for the carriage-house, was there, and therefore he could assume Tabitha was too.
The carriage-house doors were shut, so she was likely at the manor house. He wove his way back out of the tangle of streets that made up Lord Natayl’s neighborhood and made for the north gate. The guards on duty there recognized him, saluted, and unlocked the tall, ponderous doors.
The first hint of gold colored the eastern sky over his right shoulder as he rode out. The clop-clop of horseshoes on granite paving stones became the thump-thump of hooves on packed earth. Dim shapes of grassy hills and copses of trees spread on either side, leading up to the dark blur that was the forest.
For the first time, the stallion didn’t seem glad to be out. He kept snorting and shying, and Graegor wondered if the near-dawn darkness was spooking him. They’d ridden at night before, though ...
He’s reacting to your mood, idiot. You’re wound up, so he’s uneasy.
Graegor closed his eyes to center himself. He imagined layers of steel thickening his mental barriers, walling off his anger and anxiety. Within a few seconds the horse relaxed and stopped moving his head around so much, and Graegor patted his shoulder in apology.
The stallion really needed a name. He’d have to think of something soon, or just call him Spook like Jeff wanted.
The sun rose behind him, casting his long shadow across the road and adding colors to the world around him. Right now the ambient magic of the island felt close, personal. His mind dipped down to where it simmered beneath the ground. It rose to his call, and he held it for a moment, weaving a few stands into his own power, before consciously lowering it, letting it slip away.
Why couldn’t his parents just be happy for him?
Relax. You can’t be angry when you see her.
He stopped at a spur that cut into the woods from the main track. According to Contare, this led to Lord Natayl’s manor house, but Graegor had never been there, just as he had never been inside the townhouse. Lord Natayl and Lord Lasfe were the only elder sorcerers who had not held receptions at their homes during the summer for the younger sorcerers. Lord Lasfe had a good reason, but as far as Graegor knew, Lord Natayl didn’t.
Starlings flew overhead and swooped together into some high branches leaning over the road, and yellow leaves cascaded to the ground. The mix of conifers and deciduous trees gave the island forest a hundred shades and depths of color.
It’s a beautiful day. He couldn’t help it if the thought came out sour.
After a few miles, he and his horse came around a bend and saw an enormous wrought-iron gate standing open to the road. Beyond, in a wide clearing set against a vibrant backdrop of trees climbing a hill, was Lord Natayl’s manor house. Green lawns, topiaries, and flowerbeds spread in a splendor of perfection from the gate to the terrace, and the road was now paved with flagstones. The house was white stone with a grey slate roof that had at least a dozen chimneys, out some of which drifted thin smoke. The terrace was nearly as broad as the house and lined with columns, and above it were three stories of identical windows. The flagstone road curved around both sides of the mansion, and Graegor guessed that the stables and storehouses were back out of sight, to conceal the servants’ comings and goings.
Do I just ride up to the front door? It suddenly seemed very awkward, much more so than riding up to the front door of Lord Natayl’s townhouse. The bright silver cords tying him to Tabitha felt taut—was it just because he was nervous, or because she knew he was here and was hoping he would turn around and leave?
Then two grey-liveried servants emerged and hurried to a spot at the bottom of the terrace steps to wait for him, and he nudged his horse into a faster walk. When he stopped before the servants, he saw that their carefully polite expressions betrayed intense unease. Someone inside must have told them who he was, for they bowed deeply and greeted him in Mazespaak, in unison: “Lord Sorcerer.”
“Good morning.” He’d had to find a new way to speak to servants since ceasing to be one. It made them uncomfortable when he was too friendly, or when he tried to use the easy familiarity that Contare always showed, since he was too young be grandfatherly. But he couldn’t find it in himself to be brusque and careless like most lords. As in other such things, Darc and Adlai had provided the best
example, and he tried to imitate how he had heard them talk to their own servants—courteous but straight to the point. “Please ask Lady Tabitha if she would consent to see me.”
“Yes, m’lord,” the one on the right said with another bow. The one on the left stepped up to take Graegor’s bridle as he dismounted, and he led the black horse away as Graegor followed the first servant up to the broad double doors.
The foyer was large, marbled, and distinctly chilly. Two staircases laid with expensively muted carpets curved up to a broad second-floor balcony. The servant led Graegor to a room off the foyer, not close enough to the front door to be insulting but not deep enough into the house to be truly welcoming, and gestured to a pair of tall chairs. “Would you like wine or other refreshment, m’lord?”
“No, thank you.”
“I will tell Lady Tabitha that you are here, m’lord.”
“Thank you.”
The servant bowed and retreated. Graegor, sure that he was being watched from somewhere, made a show of studying a landscape painting hanging above the mantelpiece of the dark fireplace. He noticed an ink stain on the sleeve of his shirt, and wished he had thought to change into fresh clothes—he’d put these on before dinner yesterday.
In the labyrinth she saw you covered with dirt, and soaking wet, and sweating from every pore, and with a bloody nose. She can’t hold an ink stain against you.
What was taking so long? The servant had left a quarter-hour ago, at least. More certain than ever that he was being watched, he wondered if there was some secret gesture or action he should make or take to pass whatever test was necessary to be admitted into Tabitha’s company.
Breon’s blood, he hated this. He hated not knowing the rules of the game, and he hated playing this game even by what rules he knew. He just wanted to talk to her about what had happened to them. About whether or not they could be friends, or a couple, now or someday. He wanted an answer—did she like him or not? Why all this over-elaborate dancing around?
It had been much easier with Jolie. He had given her the scarf he had bought in Farre, and she had torn the paper open and held it up and exclaimed over it. She’d tied it around her hair and asked him how she looked, and he’d told her she looked beautiful. She’d hugged him, and it had been very natural to simply turn his face down to hers and kiss her. She’d kissed back, then pulled away self-consciously, but still smiling, and from that moment they’d both known that they were a couple.
But it had also been far too easy to ignore her protests that final night, to assume that she felt exactly the way he did, wanted exactly what he wanted. He would not make that mistake with Tabitha.
At last, the servant reappeared. Graegor steeled himself as he turned to face him. “Please forgive the delay, m’lord,” the servant bowed. “Lady Tabitha is resting and asks that you return tomorrow.”
It hurt. It hurt so much, his heart pounded in his chest as if trying to destroy itself. But at least this was a very clear answer. Now he knew. His voice was admirably steady as he said, “Please give Lady Tabitha my apologies for disturbing her and my assurances that it will not happen again.”
There was real fear in the servant’s eyes now. “Y-yes, m’lord.”
Graegor left the room, and after a startled moment the servant dashed around him in order to properly lead the way back through the foyer and to the door. “I will have your horse brought around, m’lord,” he said at the bottom of the terrace steps, and within a few moments the second servant was leading the black horse back to Graegor. He hadn’t been unsaddled, which meant none of the servants had expected him to be here very long. Yes. A clear answer indeed.
He wanted to nudge the horse into a gallop, to get away from here and her as fast as he could, but he didn’t, because a rejected suitor had to maintain his dignity. The black horse tossed his head and snorted before starting a brisk walk back down the road. “Agreed,” he murmured to the stallion. He didn’t need her, didn’t need this. Jeff had introduced him to many magi girls—he’d ask to be introduced again.
The horse had almost reached the gate when she called to him.
Graegor tugged the reins to stop. Wordless, distressed, her presence in their bond shone stronger than it ever had before, and he looked over his shoulder.
At the same place the servants had stood to wait for him, now she stood to wait for him, in a dark, hooded cloak. The early morning sun stretched her shadow across the terrace.
With a tap of his boot, he turned the stallion around. The silvery intensity of her call drained quickly away, replaced by the carefully blank grey wall, and he half expected her to run back into the house before he got there. But she surprised him by starting toward him. Because he didn’t want to tower over her, he dismounted and led his horse, and their steps met at a marble bench at the edge of the wide lawn.
Tabitha lowered her hood. Her golden hair was combed back into a long, neat braid, like it had been the morning they had all gone to the cave. He had seen her take out and redo her braid twice, once during Daxod’s healing trance, and later when Borjhul had been studying the map. A lot had happened that day. But the two of them remained exactly where they had been for the last three months, and this was shown with painful clarity by his formal greeting: “My lady.”
“My lord.” She gave him her beautiful smile, and his longing for her crashed over him so completely he had to brace his arm against his horse. “Forgive me,” she went on. “It was unseemly of me to chase you, but I felt I must.”
He had to wonder why she felt she “must” do anything regarding him, after ignoring him for months. “No apologies are necessary, my lady.”
She looked at the ground, her smile slipping away, perhaps because he had not returned it. It occurred to him for the first time that she might not know how rigidly she was keeping him out. Maybe she thought she was sharing how she felt, but her magic was so strong, her natural inclination to guard herself so ingrained, that most of the time, nothing could break through.
That made him worry that he was being too hard on her, his presence in her mind too cold, and he blurted, “Can we take a walk?” He gestured toward some topiaries. “Around the garden, or ...” He trailed off, not knowing how to finish because the words sounded awkward, uncertain—too much like he felt.
But Tabitha nodded, a bit of her smile returning. “Oh, yes, let me show you the grounds. Lord Natayl’s flowerbeds are always blooming, even in the autumn.”
They slowly circled the lawn, and she pointed out the different flowers. Paths led into the garden, but she avoided these—probably to keep his horse from stepping on things. At the front of the house, Tabitha followed the road around one side, revealing the stables and storehouses as Graegor had thought. There was motion and noise here, and Tabitha did not venture close, but she told him the function of each building and the abilities of the senior servant in charge of each. Her entire narration was sprinkled with “Lord Natayl does not like”, “Lord Natayl thinks” and other comments that hinted at changes she would make when the property was hers.
When they came to the edge of the woods behind the house, she turned to look back at the view, holding one slender hand over her cloak clasp. Graegor thought of something to say that might help him actually get to know her better. “Did you grow up in a place like this?”
“No.” Her gaze across the back lawn was pensive. “My father’s castle is an ancient keep, on a mountain overlooking the sea. It’s in many northern stories.”
Just like Castle Chrenste, where he should have grown up, was in many western stories. Her family had kept so much of what his had lost—of what his father had denied him even the knowledge.
Tabitha was gesturing toward the manor house. “This reminds me of the countryside, where friends of mine live.”
She sounded wistful, and he asked, “Do you miss your home?”
“Oh, yes, of course. Seeing my father again brought it all back to me.” She sighed. “He left just yesterday, as one of t
he king’s escorts.”
He hadn’t meant to remind her of King Motthias. He couldn’t even say the standard “I’m so sorry it happened”, because she had to feel guilty that she had been too stunned to try to save him.
Then she looked over at him curiously. “My lord, I don’t remember meeting your family during the festival. Were they here?” When he said nothing—could say nothing—she said, “Forgive me if I tread heavily. I don’t mean to.”
“No. I mean, there’s nothing to forgive. My family decided not to come.”
She fortunately did not ask why, which would have required too complicated an answer. “Did you grow up in a place like this?” she asked instead.
“No, not at all. It’s an artisan village. My parents are craftmasters.”
“Craftmasters?” She said the word slowly, then her eyes widened a little. “Your family has no holdings?”
“No.” He had no idea what else to say, so he said nothing else, and the silence stretched awkwardly.
“Forgive me,” she said again.
Why was this so hard? It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to anyone. “How—how did you find out? About being a sorceress, I mean?”
She blinked, maybe at the subject change. “Lord Natayl told me, of course.”
“You ... you didn’t do any magic before? By accident, or anything?”
Tabitha hesitated, and lowered her eyes. “I heard that you ... you broke through a dam. By accident.”
He’d heard that too. “No, my lady. It wasn’t that.”
She looked up at him through her eyelashes. “What was it, my lord?”
“An earthquake.” Maybe if he said it emotionlessly, it wouldn’t sound like a boast. “That was when Lord Contare found me.”
Tabitha drew her cloak even closer about her shoulders. “Your mastery of earth magic is most impressive, my lord.”
He couldn’t tell by her tone if she really meant it. The silver threads binding them were bright and strong, but still untextured, still featureless. Maybe he was supposed to boast. Maybe that was how lords showed high regard for ladies in Thendalia, and by not doing it, he was insulting her. But he hadn’t been raised like that, and he wasn’t sure that he could do it without sounding like a jackass. “Your magic is impressive, my lady,” he said instead.
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