“I accuse no one without proof,” Saeleonarial told the hold lord as he straightened.
The bandage-free portion of Nim’s face flushed. “Sir! I’m na liar!” Out of turn, impassioned . . . such was the fear in the hall, no one appeared to notice.
“I believe what you say,” the scribemaster assured him gravely. “But did you see the mage write this ill creation? Were there witnesses to its first breath?”
“The dead.” Flat and sure, shoulders squared. “Sir.”
No wonder a distraught village trusted this wounded boy to plead their case. Saeleonarial was blunt in return. “Since they cannot testify—no, lad,” this to forestall what was surely a protest. “Despite the tales, magic has no power after death. I must go myself. At once.”
The hold lord pursed his lips, then nodded as if the scribemaster had asked his permission. “You’ll take suitable company—”
“Here he is.” Saeleonarial nodded at the farm lad. “If magic’s been ill-used, best if only those already touched by it or those with Her Gift approach. My thanks, Hold Lord,” this with a half bow, “but we go alone.”
Insom scowled, but didn’t press. “I expect a full reporting, Scribemaster, on your return.”
Return? He hadn’t left yet. At the mere thought of the journey, Saeleonarial felt every ache in his once-young bones. Riverhill was not in the lovely heartlands, where civilized canals linked city to village and inns could be relied upon to have soft clean sheets. Once past Her Veil, it would be rutted mountain roads, and lucky to find a bed even if there was time for one.
But the hold lord was partly right.
Saeleonarial met a multiplicity of his own troubled gaze in the hold daughter’s mirrors.
There would be a report, but not to Insom the Second. Not to anyone so predictable and powerless. The Deathless Goddess had daintier ears at her disposal.
Maleonarial, he fussed to himself. Old fool. What have you done?
* * *
Magic begins with intention. Intention is expressed as words in Her sacred language. Unspoken words. Words of only this purpose. The symbols of Her lettering are written in precise order, not from top to bottom, but over one another so ink blends all into the rest. What is written thus can never be read, as everyday writing could be, nor checked for error. Only in the mind and hand of the mage scribe will the intention of his words remain. There, and in the living result.
Ink and pen and parchment are the physical means. Students who struggle to master lettering soon learn they’ll set fewer regrettable mistakes loose on the world if they use whole parchment, lump-free ink, and sharpen their quills. Masters, busy struggling to preserve what remains of their own lives, can afford no mistakes at all. They hoard fine parchment and carry their favorite pens on their persons. They buy only the best and rarest inks.
For materials have their own impact on intention and magic. Some dampen it, stealing more life than needful from the mage. Some enhance it, allowing a certain extravagance. Those inks and pens and parchments most worth using are those made by the scribe himself, an effort ultimately beyond aging bones.
The Deathless Goddess having a sense of humor.
Drizzle slanted beneath the canvas, found mends and gaps in his clothes, fingered the bones of his neck. Maleonarial shrugged his cloak tighter. His huddled body protected the tiny flame and the battered pot of ink bubbling merrily atop. Almost ready. His fingers twitched, practicing the words they would write this time.
Fewer than yesterday. Almost random. Almost. The words rattled around in his head while he did other tasks. They’d find their order when he wrote and not before. Though soundless, Her Words were as if spoken. Once said, once heard, forever gone.
Once he would have been flustered, unwilling to part with an instant of future without certainty. In the first years, at the beginning of all this, he prepared meticulous, thoughtful accounts of every potentiality, worked months on exact lists, planned for a flawless result. And failed, spending life for nothing.
He’d refused to let it be for nothing. The time since had taught him an important lesson. The language of The Deathless Goddess was itself perfect; he had only to trust and let Her Words flow as they would from his intent. Remarkably liberating, though he sometimes dreamed of being left with one word and no strength to write it.
Tucking his hands beneath his arms, Maleonarial stared into the pot. Fresh-made ink. Effort. The nib of bone. Chance. The tiny almost clear parchment he’d scraped and stretched from the delicate hide of a thrush. Skill. Would these be enough, this time?
Canvas snapped overhead, strained at the lashings. “Temper, temper,” he murmured.
He dared not have expectation. Expectation was for those with a future.
Hope. That he permitted himself.
* * *
“Drive through the night?” If Harn’s eyes went wider, Saeleonarial decided, they’d pop from his head.
Domozuk growled something rude from behind the wagon, busy repacking what he and Harn had hastily removed from their master’s quarters. Most would stay behind—including court dress and the damnable wig, the scribemaster thought with some relief—to make room for the gear needed for the trip cross-country. Extra wheels and grain, tents . . . with luck, they’d use none of it. Nim, despite his injuries, was quick to help. The anxious student, however, stood beside the wagon, wringing his hands.
No question he had to come, however unused to rough living. Left alone, the curious hold lord would have him for questions Saeleonarial did not want answered. “The horses,” he commented dryly, “do the work, Harn. You can nod in the back.”
“Yes, Scribemaster.” As if he’d sentenced the lad to lashes.
“Quick now. Make yourself useful.” Trusting Domozuk to keep the glum student occupied, Saeleonarial walked alongside his team of six matched whites. He patted a pretty curved neck, admired the gilt-crusted harness and the red plumes crowning each head, and wished there was time to trade the lot of them for sturdy draft mules. As well wish for his youth back. A dozen bells ago and he’d have eschewed the big comfortable wagon to ride like a border raider. Now he’d count himself fortunate to hold his bladder more than an hour, let alone endure bouncing the long hours. The young didn’t appreciate what they had.
Rid Smithyson, driver, groom, and pamperer of the expensive beauties, stood at their head, letting the lead right, a favorite, lip his fingers. He greeted the scribemaster with a scowl that joined his bushy gray eyebrows. “Ey’ll na manage a rough road, boy. Na with yorn bloody ’ouse on wheels.”
The “boy” from a man twice his years, if not age, made Saeleonarial snort. “This wagon’s what we have. The team will get us to the foothills at Meadton and we’ll buy whatever tougher stock we can there. The hold lord sent a courier ahead on our behalf.”
A long, thoughtful chew, then spit to the side. “Nowrn ey’ll be wait’n for a dandy’n ’is purse. Stick us wit ’ard-mout glueys a’ best. Like to spook at yorn dingdangles n’run us inna ditch, if’n ’ey sound t’all.”
Saeleonarial worked through that. Rid’s hinterland tongue thickened when he wasn’t happy with those in authority. It was almost incomprehensible now. “Dingdangles” were the tiny, almost mute bells stitched in rows around his travel cap. Better than the heavy and intolerably hot wig, however more impressive the latter. The tally was what mattered; Domozuk attached a new bell to both cap and wig with each intention Saeleonarial wrote. The Deathless Goddess hadn’t protested. At least, he hadn’t aged twice as fast. Not that he’d mentioned that particular nightmare to his faithful servant.
The rest? Not hard to guess. “Pick the best you can and keep us on the road.”
“Aie.” A gnarled hand rubbed the hollow behind an ear. Saeleonarial could swear the made-horse leaned into the caress. “Be rare trouble, ’is’un.”
“It may not be a scribe matter,” h
e countered, pitching his voice not to carry back to the wagon.
“An’ I kin pull yorn bloody ’ouse misself.” Another spit, accompanied by a too-wise look. “No one else fi’ta go?”
Trust the stables to have as much news as the full court, though the emptiness of the cobbled yard and curtain-drawn windows above were telling of themselves, it being a fair afternoon when the area should have bustled with those on their own business, let alone those curious about his. “No one else I’d trust,” the scribemaster admitted. “The sooner we get to Riverhill, the better.”
“‘Ey’ll be fast’rn wind o’ flats—” Rid promised, only to toss his head abruptly like one of his charges. “Whossat, now?”
Saeleonarial turned and felt his blood congeal in his veins. “Stay with the horses,” he thought he said. Hoped he’d said.
Slippers coated in pearls seemed not to care if they were stepped on cobble or into fresh droppings. Silks weighing less than air ignored the autumn crisp, though rouged cheeks took a brighter hue. An attacking army would appear—would be—less formidable than the five women who walked from the shadowed wall toward them. Saeleonarial bowed low and stayed that way, despite his back’s protest.
“Rise, Scribemaster.”
He knew the voice, very well, if not the face. “Hold Daughter.” She was stout, round of face, hair peppered gray. Her lips were pale and thin beneath a regrettable nose; paler eyes gazed from the faint blue tattoos of her office. Without the voice, he’d have guessed someone’s mother or aunt in the wrong clothes. The silks and jewel-laden ropes lay easier over the long, lithe bodies of her attendants. Their eyes, within curled black tattoos, stared at him with an unnerving intensity. The hold daughter was not at risk, in any sense, while these were with her, even though three were burdened with dark, polished boxes.
Saeleonarial gave a second, deeper obeisance. As he straightened, “What is asked of me?”
“Her Gift, Mage.” The hold daughter reached within one sleeve to produce a pen.
His blood began to flow again. A request from the shadow court wasn’t unheard of, merely rare and more discreet. Perhaps the speed with which he’d prepared to leave the hold had caught her by surprise. The boxes? If payment, all he wanted at the moment was a more travel-worthy wagon. “It is always at your service, Hold Daughter.”
“Good. Leorealyon?”
The leftmost of the women flanking the hold daughter, the one without a case, stepped forward and bowed her head to the scribemaster. “I’m ready.”
“Scribemaster. You will write eyes for this, Her Designate. She will accompany you to Riverhill and see this mad mage.”
The Deathless Goddess was sending Her Witness with him? Saeleonarial was horrified. No, appalled. That was closer to the mark. The Goddess’ personal attention was nothing a sane mage sought. Damn Maleonarial.
Which might be true by the end of this.
The pen tilted toward him, slightly. “Scribemaster?”
What could he do but take the thing? Too fine for his big, fisher-bred hands. Perfect balance. Gold, the body; for the nib, a gem had been cut and set into the end. A topaz. “Here?” His voice cracked on the word. “Now?”
“There’s no time to waste. We’re alone, save for those who should be with us.”
No wonder the yard had a hollow feel. It hadn’t been emptied by rumor.
He traded glances with Domozuk, who’d slipped out at the unfamiliar voices to stand by the wagon. The servant tipped his head at the rear gate. He’d keep Harn and their farm lad safely out of sight. One worry of thousands dealt with.
Another bell.
So soon.
Dread faded as his bones felt that itch. His heart pounded with excitement.
Not so safe. Not safe at all.
Saeleonarial braced himself. As if it were possible to prepare for the body’s abrupt decay . . . as if he had a choice. “This isn’t a magic I’ve done before,” he cautioned.
Leorealyon’s eyes lifted to his. They were the honey-flecked green of warm summer afternoons. A man could find his youth in those eyes, remember the sweetness of berry wine on his tongue. The suffix to her name meant “Promised to the Lady.”
The pen dragged at his hand.
“Need you be reminded of the words?”
Not an insult—fear. It laced the air, threw a chill the now-restive horses seemed to sense. Magic as a weapon. Was he not being asked to use it thus, in Her name? “I know what to write, Hold Daughter,” he told her, his voice flat.
She gave a regal nod. At that signal, two of her attendants stepped forward, opening their cases. Within the first, lined with purple velvet, nestled ranks of tiny crystal vials, the dark liquid of any one worth his weight in gold. Within the second lay parchments of varied lengths, each immaculate roll secured with a jeweled clasp. The true wealth of Tiler’s Hold, on display in its empty, breeze-swept horseyard.
Any of such quality would do. “You choose,” Saeleonarial told Leorealyon. Maybe having a hand in her own fate would ease what was to come.
Wordlessly, she plucked the closest vial and handed it to him. When it came to the parchments, her long fingers hovered over the selection and she gave him a questioning look.
Saeleonarial held up the pen. “That length.”
She gave him one of the smallest rolls.
The lids closed and the bearers took a step back. The third came forward, offering the flat of her case as a table.
Saeleonarial tested it with one hand. Leaned. Steady as stone. He slipped the parchment from the clasp. It lay flat, uninterested in the breeze. A twist broke the seal on the vial of ink. A moment to clear his mind, to concentrate on the intention. Nothing but that. No words but what made it clear. The itch built inside him; his blood took fire.
Everything faded but the pen. He lowered it till the topaz nib penetrated the black surface. Ink climbed and held, dulling the gem. He lifted the pen and wrote what he must.
With the lift of the pen after the final stroke, a faint gasp broke from his lips. Even expected, remembered, and longed for, nothing muted the shocking exaltation that raced through his body as his words blurred into a thick line, then two, then four, then eight—lines that grew out from the parchment, that enlarged and swayed like rooted, hungry worms. Each had a head, of sorts. A closed eye. A closed mouth.
He’d done it.
Saeleonarial put aside the pen and curled the parchment in a loose roll. As he gathered it in his hands, felt the new life within squirm, his heart stuttered in his chest. He didn’t dare move—couldn’t move. Cold sweat dripped into his eyes. His legs threatened to fold under him. Not yet, he begged inwardly. Surely that wasn’t the last of my life . . .
“Scribemaster?”
He didn’t spare the breath to explain, merely . . . waited. His heart hammered once. Again. Then resumed an almost normal beat.
So. The Deathless Goddess wasn’t done with him.
“Kneel, Leorealyon,” Saeleonarial gasped. The girl obeyed, every motion of grace. When none of her companions came forward to brace her head, the scribemaster took hold of her jaw with his free hand and readied the thin, squirming curl of parchment in the other. “You must not move.”
“I will not,” she promised. Brave words. This would be the hold daughter’s favorite, the best of those who attended her and so The Deathless Goddess, the one who couldn’t be spared but must be spent.
He bent close. Silk from her sleeves whispered across his wrist, caught his doubtless grayer beard.
Saeleonarial wasn’t sure if he pitied her or himself more as he tipped the roll into the first lovely eye and the worms opened their mouths.
* * *
Cil rubbed the rain from his face, blending it with tears. Cold and hot. Fresh and salt. Waste and frustration. “Dumb meat,” he said through his bent teeth.
He wri
ggled farther into his hideyhole, his place, but squatted where he could watch the goings-on. Shapeless forms in the dusk gathered, guttering lanterns in hand. They carried weapons for a war against dirt, against weeds: staves and pitchforks, axes and picks.
They prepared for battle, but not against him. Silly-Cil was unimportant. Silly-Cil was useless. Silly-Cil was to squat in his hole, out of the way of his betters. “Mine. Mine!” he wailed. But none of them believed him capable of anything, not the creation of something magnificent, not even of being able to fight for himself.
They would wage war against a stranger, before noticing him.
It had been for nothing.
Cil hunched over the ache in his heart. “Not. Not. Not.” His hand flashed down—they didn’t think him quick, but he was, very quick, quickest—and scooped a bug fleeing the damp. He crunched it in his bent teeth, then spat his frustration and fury into the storm.
He didn’t need to see the wings or razor teeth. Methodically, his hands worked the cold mud, finding anything alive to bring to his mouth.
Anything he could chew and spit and turn to spite.
* * *
Six holdings divided Tananen’s lush heartland with its bustling canals and fertile soil. Their ancient holds were surrounded by sprawling cities of brick and cobblestone, though no other building could be taller and all roads, and newcomers, must go straight to the hold. Nine holdings carved an existence from the startling valleys and iron-rich hills of the north. Though together their sparse populations would be lost within a single heartland city, the nine sent a disproportionate number of students to the mage school in Alden. Regardless of wealth, numbers, or gifts, rule of each holding passed smoothly from hold daughter to her successor-designate; less smoothly, and at times with bloody argument, from hold lord to his heir.
The Gossamer Mage Page 3