Torchlight

by Theresa Dahlheim

  A polite smile crossed her face, almost as if by instinct, and disappeared. He knew she was used to hearing such things. This was a big part of the problem he’d had with the court ladies in Chrenste—he didn’t know how to talk like that, how to flatter, quip, and brag. How could he let her know that he wasn’t saying it to flatter her, he was saying it to try to break through the wall she’d put up between them?

  She started to walk back toward the mansion, and he caught up in a few steps. She took another path that led behind the outbuildings, to an enormous array of flowers planted in raised beds. Again she spoke about the flowers, all hybrids with which Lord Natayl was experimenting. Graegor kept trying to think of something intelligent and relevant to say, some answer to her comments that showed that he was listening, but his knowledge of botany was largely confined to trees.

  Wait—now she was saying something else. Fortunately he caught the second part of a sentence about the death of her old nanny, and he made a sound of sympathetic agreement, which seemed to be the right thing to do. “I still miss her terribly,” she sighed, reaching her hand to ruffle over the flower petals. “But part of me is glad that she passed to God without seeing what has become of her homeland—she was from the White Sea region. I’m sure you’ve heard of their troubles with the heretics.”

  So those “troubles” weren’t near her father’s duchy after all. That was good. “Yes. In Telgardia we call them ‘shovel-men’.”

  “As do we,” she nodded, and her fingers pinched against the stem of one of the flowers, breaking it off. “It started in Adelard, but now it’s flooding all the L’Abbanist world. So terrible. And now there are these ‘ringless ones’—their leader is from your country, yes?”

  She looked at him directly when she said this, and for a moment he couldn’t answer, because she was so beautiful. “Yes,” he stammered finally. “Lord Contare met him once.”

  “What do they want, then?” she demanded, but then her eyes softened. “Again, forgive me. It’s just that these heretics trouble me so much.”

  “I understand.” His face was flushed. “They—they confuse me. I really don’t know what they want, except that their leader is in prison, and they want him out. They burned one of the river ferries downriver from where I grew up.”

  “Truly?—Oh, dear God, the madness is spreading.” She clutched the flower in her hand and bit her lip as she stared off at nothing.

  Graegor was caught between sympathy with her distress and fascination with her unconscious gestures, and it took rather too long for him to shake off the latter and concentrate on the former. “It won’t spread any further,” he told her. “Lord Contare will make sure.”

  Tabitha glanced at him, then recovered her poise, carefully setting the flower back with the others. “Why do you say that?” she asked. It sounded disapproving, but he could tell through the bond—he could tell through the bond!—that she hoped it was true, that Contare could stop this infection.

  “One of Lord Contare’s magi was there when they burned the ferry,” he said, and at her quick nod and wide eyes, he went on: “He was on a riverboat, and he saw the glow above the trees. When they got closer, he saw men on the pier with swords and chains. That’s how he knew they were ringless ones—they carry broken chains.”

  Tabitha shuddered, folding her hands into her cloak and shaking her head at the ground. “Swords, chains, shovels—that’s how we know they are heretics. Holy men are men of peace. Did the magus order them to disperse?”

  “No. They wouldn’t have listened.” He could remember details of Hugh’s telepathic account very well now that he tried; it was amazing to him what a highly trained telepath could communicate with such clarity and brevity. Hugh had mentally organized what he remembered seeing, hearing, and thinking that day on the river, and he had delivered those memories with the orderly progression of a written report. Through his eyes, Graegor had seen the burning ferry, and the men gathered in its red light, standing back from the intense heat but shouting, their mouths wide and their throats straining, their fists in the air.

  “So what did he do?” Tabitha asked.

  “Some of Duke Richard’s men were with him escorting the cargo, and they all decided that they needed to get to the fort near Orest and raise the alarm in case no one knew yet. The pilot of the boat tried to make landing at an old pier, but the boat crashed, and while they were getting off, the ringless ones attacked them.”

  “Did they know they were fighting a magus?”

  “He wrapped some of their own chains around their arms, so they had to know, but it didn’t stop them. He probably wouldn’t have lived through it if the soldiers from the fort hadn’t gotten there so soon.”

  “Your duke’s men, then, they captured the heretics?”

  He was disappointing her with his answers—but all he could do was tell the truth. “Some of them. They actually held off the soldiers for most of the night—it was raining and windy and it was really hard to see. Just before morning they scattered into the woods.”

  “So what does Lord Contare mean to do?”

  “He thinks that there’s someone close to the ringless ones’ leader who’s really the one churning everyone up. He wants to learn who that is and stop him.”

  Tabitha nodded slowly. “I hope he does.”

  “I hope he does too.”

  They walked along the rows of flowerbeds without speaking. At first it seemed like appropriate silence, but the longer it lasted, the more uncomfortable it grew. The bond gave him the feeling that she wanted to ask him more about the heretics in Telgardia, but she said nothing, and suddenly he wondered if he should have spoken so freely. She wasn’t Telgard, after all, and her loyalty was to her own people. But Contare told Lady Josselin everything, didn’t he? Or did he? Or did that matter, since Tabitha wasn’t Josselin and he wasn’t Contare?

  Confused and embarrassed, Graegor turned to his horse as they walked, sliding his fingers under the bridle to straighten it half an inch. The stallion had behaved himself admirably the entire time, for which Graegor was deeply grateful.

  “Your horse is such a beautiful color,” Tabitha said, and the sound of her voice was a little startling after the long pause. She moved closer to lay her fingers on the steel studs on the saddle’s edge. “He looks so regal.”

  This, at least, he could talk about. “He was a gift from the king.”

  “Truly? King Raimund is not known for giving the best he has.”

  What does that mean? “My lady?”

  She made a little gesture to wave away her remark. “Oh, doubtless my judgment is colored by my father’s opinions,” she said lightly. “I’m afraid your king once bested him in a business transaction. But tell me, since you know him, what is King Raimund truly like?”

  He needed to be careful to not seem to speak badly of her own recently—and horribly—deceased king. “He has a serious attitude,” he said. “I don’t think I saw him laugh or even smile ... although I think he made a joke once.”

  Tabitha nodded. “What of the queen, what is she like?”

  “She’s very beautiful.” At her small frown, he hastened to add, “For an older lady. She’s very kind, and everyone loves her.”

  “And their children?—Two boys and two girls, I understand.”

  “Yes. The princesses are sweet little girls. The princes are a good sort, and a lot of fun. I count them as friends. The whole family was very welcoming to me.”

  “Well, of course. You are Telgardia’s sorcerer.”

  For some reason when she said that, it made the Carhlaans’ warm welcome seem coldly opportunistic. And it reminded him that his title hadn’t made her welcome him at all. Graegor pushed both thoughts away and patted the horse’s neck.

  “What is his name?” Tabitha asked.

  “I haven’t named him yet.” Then the obvious hit him: “Would you give him a name, my lady?”

  She stopped walking, and he once more caught an unguarded look in her eye
s. The request had pleased her. “Would you like me to?”

  “Very much.”

  She looked back at the horse, still fingering the edge of the saddle as they walked. “He is very regal,” she murmured, glancing over his head and mane. Graegor resisted the urge to agree, instead silently letting her consider. It occurred to him that she might suggest naming him after the dead king, and he really hoped she wouldn’t.

  “Sable,” she said finally, decisively.

  He was both relieved that she hadn’t said Motthias and disappointed that she hadn’t come up with a name he hadn’t thought of, and rejected, himself. But he smiled. “Sable,” he repeated. It fit, and a boring name was better than one with any history attached. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “You’re welcome, my lord.”

  That settled, the awkward pause made another appearance. Graegor thought about offering her a ride, but then he remembered the sidesaddle she had used in the Equinox procession. Northern women didn’t straddle horses as western women did.

  “I wish I had seen you ride in the procession,” Tabitha said, seeming to pick up a random piece of his thought. “Lady Koren told me it was breathtaking.”

  He was again caught between two reactions—pleased embarrassment at the word “breathtaking” and severe unease at the idea of Tabitha and Koren talking about him. “She’s very kind,” he answered, pretending to untwist a bridle strap.

  “Have you been riding all your life?” Curiosity colored her voice, and he picked up the idea that she wouldn’t have expected it from someone raised as a commoner.

  “All my life.” It came out more defensively than he had wanted, and he kept talking to cover it. “My favorite horse was black too, except he had a white streak down his nose. We named him Lightning.”

  “I fell from a horse when I was seven.” She patted the stallion’s neck as she said this, as if forgiving him. “I was not hurt, of course. We don’t get hurt. But it frightened me. I was never again truly at ease while riding.”

  “I’m sorry.” He’d been falling off horses for as long as he’d been riding them. “Maybe you just need the right horse.” A horse that maybe he could find for her.

  Then she gave him an unexpectedly brilliant smile. “Or maybe I don’t,” she said, as he tried to remember to breathe. “Once I learn to shapechange, I can’t imagine that I would ever want to ride a horse or sit on some old ship ever again!”

  He’d never seen her this enthusiastic about anything, and it made it easier to find something to say. “What animal do you want to turn into?”

  “Oh, some type of bird, of course, they all—we all—turn into birds, since birds fly. Lord Natayl’s shape is a grey goose. Lord Contare’s shape is an eagle, yes?”

  “Yes, it’s on his family’s crest. I’ll probably be a falcon, for the same reason. Peregrine falcons are the fastest birds in the world.”

  They discussed birds as they trod the paths between the flowerbeds, and it was amazing, it was almost normal, almost like a conversation Graegor might have with one of his friends. Tabitha knew a lot about migratory birds like ducks, geese, and swans, since flocks of them gathered at a lake near her father’s castle. She told him that she and her maids would sometimes have picnics on warm days and throw stale bread crusts to the birds. Her descriptions of the sizes and colors of the ducks did not sound like any ducks he’d seen, and this led to a new topic—different species of the same animals on the northern and western continents. When they got to bears, Tabitha shuddered elaborately and said, “You have not seen a bear until you have seen a polar bear. I don’t think I have ever been so frightened in my life! A traveling show came to Betaul and they had a polar bear in a cage on wheels. I was not standing very far away from it when it suddenly roared and hit the bars of the cage and the entire cage fell over! It took twelve men to get the cage back on its wheels, and the bear was biting at them between the bars, and some men lost their fingers. They killed it and gave me its pelt. It was a horrible animal.”

  Graegor was feeling sorry for the caged bear, so did not know how to answer Tabitha’s pronouncement, and the conversation screeched to a halt. Say something, say something! “It ... it must have been hard to capture.”

  “Truly,” she quickly agreed. “But it’s not right to hold wild animals that way. It makes me ...” She stopped, glanced at him, then lowered her eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked softly, hoping she was about to confide some secret.

  “It makes me think of Rossin,” she said, just as softly. “I feel like we are doing that to him. Holding a wild animal in a cage.”

  “Yes ...” It was stupid of him to wish she would never think of Rossin or anyone else in their Circle. “But he did all right in the labyrinth, eventually. I think he trusts Ilene now, at least.”

  Tabitha shook her head. “It might be a long time before we can trust him.” He didn’t know what she meant, and she must have felt it through the bond. “At the Hippodrome,” she went on. “Remember? He flew away when we were attacked. He abandoned us. What if Lord Lasfe had died and no one else could bring Rossin back? Our Circle would never be complete.”

  She had a good point, and he had to try to answer it. “If that had happened, maybe ... maybe we could have brought Rossin back. Our Circle. Not like Iseult, but ...” He stopped, cursing himself, because of course Sorceress Iseult had been a Thendal, and the story of her forced submission by the rest of her Circle was deeply felt among Thendals as a racial outrage.

  “No,” Tabitha agreed, her voice very low. “Not like Iseult.”

  She fell silent, lost in her own thoughts. Graegor could feel a slight tremor along the lines of their bond, but didn’t know if she meant for him to feel it. He didn’t try to find anything to say this time, because he didn’t want to say the wrong thing again.

  “That rogue magus at the Hippodrome,” Tabitha said finally, stopping on the path but not looking up. “What he said to you ... you touched the Eternal Flame.”

  “I ... I suppose I did, in a way.”

  “He said, ‘You are dying and you know it.’ Is that ... is that how you felt, when it happened? That ... that you were dying?”

  He shook his head firmly. “No. Not at all.”

  Now she looked up at him, her lovely grey eyes solemn. “What did you feel?”

  “I felt ... I felt that God was with me.” He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone about his vision before. But now, slowly, the words came out. “I was among the stars ... and I could see the castle, and ... the water and the earth ... it was all moving inside me. It was as if ... as if I knew everyone who lived in the city, like they were all my family, and I had come home.”

  Tabitha’s lips parted. Her presence in his mind suddenly grew stronger, the awe she felt spreading like rays of white light. “Was it prescience?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. None of the Telgard sorcerers have been prescient.”

  “So what was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She just looked at him. She needed more. She needed to know.

  “It’s not the end,” he told her. It was all he knew for sure. “Whatever’s going to happen with our Circle, it won’t be the end.”

  She nodded. “I believe you,” she said, so softly he barely heard her.

  He felt so close to her now. She was one of his Circle, one who would share his life and share his fate, who would help shape the world as the centuries passed. She was one of the very, very few who understood what it was like.

  He lifted his hand, meaning to grasp hers. But she turned and started walking again, and had gone several steps before he recovered enough to move. The silver cords of the bond were bright and blank again.

  A growl deep in his throat suddenly threatened to rise, and he held himself firm against it. What was she doing? If she didn’t like him, why was she spending time with him? If she did like him, why was she pushing him away?

  “Lord Natayl told me that Arundel is prescient,” she sa
id when he caught up to her, as if prescience was what they’d really been talking about just now. “And that Borjhul might be too since Lord Oran is.”

  Graegor saw a way to steer the conversation toward what they really needed to talk about. “Yes … so ... what has Lord Natayl told you about me?”

  She paused, and her reply was cool: “Why would he say anything about you?”

  The answer to that was so obvious—Because he chose me for you!—that he had to clamp his mouth shut to keep from shouting it. His heart felt like a rock wedged into his chest.

  He had to get out of here before he said or did something even more stupid. He bunched the horse’s reins in his left hand and dropped back a step to draw even with the saddle, then took hold of the pommel and set his foot in the stirrup.

  Tabitha turned, her eyes widened, and the bond flared white. “What is it?”

  He settled himself astride the horse and said, “Your servant, my lady.”—as he’d heard Darc and Adlai say when taking their leave of women to whom they wished to remain polite but not friendly. He tugged the reins and the stallion promptly made a sharp turn away from her.

  “Wait!”

  Good manners dictated that he listen, so he gave his horse a mental nudge to stop and looked down at her. She came up to stand at the horse’s shoulder, holding her cloak clasp tightly in both hands. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

  “Don’t leave.” Her voice was low, her grey eyes huge as she looked up at him.

  “Why not?” He didn’t bother to hide his bitterness.

  “I hate Natayl for doing this to me!—I did not want—I thought I could—” She shut her eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. “I told myself that I would not let this affect me. But you’re affecting me. You’re one of the nicest people I have ever met. You’re so patient and you stand up for me and you have such amazing eyes but your magic is so frightening.”