Just not here. Kait closed her eyes. Her Words remained, she’d that much, but she’d neither heard The Lady nor felt Her Presence since entering these stone towers midsummer. What if Pincel Hopper, her fellow Woodshaven daughter, had the right of it, and she was wrong to abandon their people and her chores, even if the summons for prospects to be her successor-designate came from the hold daughter herself—
Even if Kait had felt, at that moment, swept up and bound to go and halfway down the mountain—
And hadn’t it happened, just at that moment, Atta Moss, the third of them and her senior and more likely to go, cut her forearm open with an axe with unlikely carelessness?
A daughter might believe herself chosen.
A prideful one would, Kait snorted to herself. And yes, prideful, to take The Lady’s silence here as disapproval, to believe She judged Kait’s decision, to leave Woodshaven and those in her care, ill-made. The Lady had greater concerns than the choices of a single daughter from a humble village.
No, this lack was in her, a failing of worth she must and would confess today to Tiler’s Hold Daughter, before heading home in disgrace to face those she’d abandoned. She would try and redeem herself. Try to regain what felt the loss of her soul, should The Lady be merciful.
Unless—she’d make one last attempt.
As she had each day and more since her arrival, Kait let herself be open and peaceful, listened with all her heart and soul—wished with every fiber of her being—
Feeling nothing. Hearing—nothing.
She squeezed her eyelids shut, waited till there was no chance of a tear. Fool, to hope The Lady would come when called, but hadn’t she been one? No more. High time, as she’d tell her son, to pull the wool from her eyes, admit failure, and be done.
After this final duty to a friend.
Leorealyon’s map hung in an alcove carved into the black marble of the wall, framed by delicate lamps burning scented oil. The hallways of the upper levels were studded with such displays, but Insom’s finest treasures resided here, along the section of corridor all must pass to enter the audience chamber.
Unless you’d leave to enter the Daughter’s Portion instead, in which case there were other passageways, alcove-free, and other doors. Where she should be, it being Kait’s turn to breakfast with the hold daughter, then view today’s audience—though she’d not stay any longer than it took to speak her piece.
The truth must be shared.
She’d time, yet.
This early, the hall held only the servants assigned to polish its gleaming floor. On knees and hands, they worked in triplets, pushing dampened wipes in great sweeps, humming together to keep a rhythm. One or more would nod in appreciation whenever she passed, for to walk here, Kait carried her shoes and wore warm socks.
Having spent days enough shooing Leksand and his little friends from her freshly sanded and swept floors. Her son cleaned those floors now, being almost grown and responsible for his aging great-uncle.
This morning, though, the servants let Kait pass without acknowledgment or grin. Their heads were down, shoulders hunched, and the hall echoed with a silence broken only by their soft huffs of effort.
Because of Leorealyon? Unlikely, as those Gifted by The Lady had fates separate from those around them. In Woodshaven, Kait would have asked what troubled them. Here, everyone had a role and station she was expected to know, insulated within walls of complex manners she most certainly didn’t.
Back to the map. It was better done than most, the landmasses of Ichep and Lithua drawn with convincing detail, and she’d have been entranced by the intricate rendering of the coastline, from the rocks of the ominous Brutes to the open welcome of Her Mouth, but for the map’s lies.
Where the rest of Tananen should be, where Woodshaven was and Leksand lived—the home of her heart? The mapmaker had drawn a loathsome monster sprawled across blankness.
Ignorance was unlikely. Maps of Tananen were easy to obtain; Kait had hung one in her chamber, bought in the same market that catered to sailors and traders from over the Snarlen Sea. The foreign mapmaker deliberately erased The Lady’s realm, replacing its rich tapestry of mountains, plains, and canals—its people—with this foul misrepresentation.
Leorealyon had been right to alert them.
The mapmaker’s message was plain: Tananen, forbidden and possessed of magic, was to be feared. As might anything unknowable be, Kait thought impatiently. Tiler’s Hold didn’t stop outsiders determined to explore beyond Her Veil, only insisted they first pay the set fee for the return of their corpse.
It dissuaded most.
Every few years, someone would mock the tales, ignore the warnings, and seek to pass Her Veil. They would drop dead, the breath taken from their lungs.
Common knowledge, but perhaps here with particular, sharpened point. Kait bent to memorize the name and the maker’s place of origin, written in a bottom corner. Burgan d’Struth from the Whitehold Isles. She would check it against the identity of the latest to attempt Her Veil. A hold daughter must take heed of attitude and its changing tides.
Especially of the lord in her charge. What message did Insom the Second send, to display this lying map as if a prize?
The truth must be cherished.
Making his message a troubling puzzle. In Woodshaven, the most complex problem she’d faced was which stand of trees to log next—granted, a knowledge and responsibility none here could claim, but hardly of use within this stone tower and the wider world beyond.
Kait pressed her lips together, forbidding a sigh. Hadn’t she’d taught Leksand to recognize the difference between needful humility and crippling self-doubt? Those with The Lady’s Gift were few in Tananen; those She permitted to utter Her Words rarer still. However silent She’d become, the Blessed Lady worked in mysterious—
All at once, she felt a prickle of unease that wasn’t the palpable weight of stone above, nor the chill air.
There. An echo to their breaths, mis-timed and deeper.
The servants continued their work, face-to-face with their reflections in the glistening floor. Couldn’t they hear it?
The breathing became a mutter, distant and faint. The reverberation of the mighty waterfall outside?
No. This emanated from the stone itself and she wasn’t hearing sounds. The mutters, the strange breathing, reached Kait inside as when The Lady spoke, Her Voice felt with the certainty of revelation.
Kait put an eager hand to the black gloss of the wall, only to gasp and draw back, fingers curled in revulsion.
This couldn’t be Her. The incoherent mutter offered nothing of calm or comfort.
It promised horror—
Gone, the sounds, all at once, as if she’d been noticed in turn.
Gooseflesh rose on Kait’s arms despite her warm cloak. No need to invent strange doings, she reminded herself sternly, shaking her head to clear it. Hadn’t she fought her dislike of the stone walls? Done her best to find beauty in windowless halls and chambers? Made her peace with an ocean instead of sweet babbling brooks?
Refused to blame the foreignness of this place for The Lady’s silence.
Strange doings were real. Villagers had been attacked. A mage scribe gone renegade and a precious acolyte claimed by The Lady to bear witness to his crimes. The hold lord had doubled the guards outside his chambers and halls even as the scribemaster himself, Saeleonarial, journeyed to Riverhill in search of the truth.
Truth? Kait’s nostrils flared. The truth was she’d wish she’d never set foot here, had it been her wish to make, but Tiler’s Hold Daughter, though in robust health, had summoned her possible successors from across the holding. Whatever Wendealyon knew, whatever was happening here, was that perilous.
The stone remained mute, if it had been the stone at all.
“Prospect Alder. Why are you not in the Daughter’s Porti
on?”
The dour note in Ursealyon’s voice was familiar. In Kait’s opinion, the senior acolyte delighted in finding everything a disappointment, from those she helped teach to the splendid food they were served, as different as winter and summer from Leorealyon. Who’d learned each prospect’s name and heritage when the rest of the acolytes couldn’t be bothered. Who’d smiled even when sweat-soaked and exhausted from training, for Her acolytes lived to serve and would defend the hold daughter—whomever she was—with their blood.
And be Designates of The Lady, should She ask, and die.
An oath Ursealyon had taken, so Kait composed her face and turned with a respectful bow, raising her gaze. Everyone here was taller, especially the acolytes. “I’m on my way.” She lifted her shoes in evidence.
“What—show some dignity in public,” the other snapped. The black curls tattooed beside each eye added weight to her scowl. “This isn’t some mountain hovel. You’re Kaitealyon.”
As well as the tattoos, Ursealyon wore the pearled slippers that were the mark of her office. They’d left scuffs Kait could see a servant hurriedly buffing clear.
She’d not be here much longer, but that didn’t mean accepting a pompous “ealyon” to her name, or rudeness to those unable to speak for themselves.
“Aie. It’s nayh ’at,” Kait replied agreeably, dropping into the rolling accent of Woodshaven. “We do ’r own mop’n.”
The acolyte regarded her stonily for an instant, then gestured down the hall. “With me.”
Kait padded alongside Ursealyon, silent in her sock-covered feet. She’d have felt a cheeky child caught stealing berries, if not for the map.
If not for Leorealyon and what she must confess.
If not for what she’d heard, that wasn’t there at all.
* * *
Maleonarial tossed aside the blanket, too restless for sleep, and stood. Stars crusted the sky but the moon had yet to rise.
Too dark to walk. Not that they traveled on foot. A group of made-horses, four suited for riders and two more, larger to carry what was needful, waited like statues at the edge of their small camp. They could see in the dark; he’d written them to be tireless and easy of gait as well, for none of their company were riders. Hard enough, riding without saddles.
Harder still, riding with grief.
Domozuk and Rid served the scribemaster; they would learn who he’d be, and if they’d be welcome, when they reached the school. Maleonarial had no counsel to offer; he’d lost interest in the politics of the place the day he’d left it.
The capable pair had been his servants before being Saeleonarial’s. Whatever they thought or felt about him now, they kept to themselves. With Nim’s help, they’d salvaged what they could from the wreckage of the great wagon. Shreds of draperies secured Saeleonarial to a made-horse.
They’d buried Cil with his victims, Nim staring down afterward as if the loose soil might hold answers.
Maleonarial having supplied none.
The clothing and jewels worn by Her Designate had been tied on the second beast of burden, along with what else they’d scavenged. Some was useful. A kettle, the remnants of tents to use for bedding. Some, like Sael’s ridiculous belled cap, was not, but he wouldn’t argue with them. Harn’s wrist was broken. Domozuk’s cheek would scar and Nim’s eye, a ruin. None of them would forget what had happened in Riverhill.
They slept like the dead themselves, tonight; muffled shapes at a distance. They kept apart from him, consciously or not, and he didn’t blame them.
He’d lived alone for twelve years. Alone with neighbors felt little different.
Maleonarial sat on a log. He stirred up the embers of the dying fire and forced himself to watch the glow. Still new, this burn of impatience. The pointless twitch of muscle and nerve. Being young again was, in many ways, a nuisance.
A danger, that too. The lust? To pick up pen and find ink, to write anything to release the damnable magic boiling inside of him?
Masters like him conveniently forgot how overwhelming their early urges had been, losing the memory in the years spent to gain control until fear of the consequence—of aging—gradually won. Forgot why even the most diligent students broke the rules and desperately wrote whatever they’d learned, groaning with relief as their magic spilled like seed on dry ground. Successful results ranged from tiresome to dangerous. Made-mice that sang one note. Made-spiders that spun webs over the cutlery. Made-fish that tried to walk, stumbling through the galleries. Made-moths that sent forth sparks and occasionally—he poked the embers—set fires, which was why students were to keep buckets of water in their rooms.
Masters forgot their youth.
Here he was, once more afflicted by it. The Deathless Hag must be laughing—
Something snapped within the blackest shadows. Maleonarial ignored it. The heartlands were well farmed and hunted. There’d be nothing larger than a fox watching him. Curious about a man who couldn’t rest.
Closer, eyes caught starlight and ember glow. Rabbit, perhaps. Gossamer?
Perhaps.
Whatever it was took risks in his company, he thought dourly. Poor Harn’s eyes had nearly popped from their sockets when he’d borrowed the student’s pen and inks, of the lowest quality, to write not one, but six made-horses with a single sure intention.
A master’s skill and knowledge, in the body of a student.
The only thing more dangerous in Tananen had made him into this and She wanted Her magic back. Wanted him to use it. To spend his new life as quickly as possible and he didn’t believe for an instant the consequences to those around him mattered to Her at all.
An ember popped, releasing a gout of flame.
A good thing he’d other plans.
* * *
Pylor Ternfeather, a damesen of Tiler’s Hold and, by virtue of being cousin to its lord, highest of that rank, pressed her tongue into her cheek as she decanted bubbled scum from atop the crucible. Despite the mask over mouth and nose, she held her breath to avoid inhaling corrosive fumes. Having poured off as much as she could, she skimmed the rest using a spoon made to her specifications, porcelain and impervious.
“Hold it still,” she ordered.
Her apprentice, Tercle Kelptassle, grunted a rude acknowledgment through her own mask. Both knew whose callused hands were steadier. Both knew they were equals, colleagues and friends, but outside this private space and their shared work, “apprentice” it was. That, or be called a servant and thus subject to the rules of a hierarchy Pylor didn’t control and Tercle wouldn’t abide. Besides, as her friend gleefully pointed out, she could go where a damesen could not, including visiting her old haunts in the fishmarket.
Pylor leaned over the crucible, her critical gaze reflected in rich emerald green. According to Saeleonarial, not a tint sought by mage scribes, but as a base for other, deeper inks, it would do well. Possibly for her ledgers. Now to—
“Py?”
She turned her head to glare accusingly at the other woman, her eyes green as the ink. Tercle’s grimace showed over her mask. The door had been locked, then. Pylor returned her attention to the crucible and snapped, “Who let you in?”
The owner of the deep male voice chuckled. “I am lord here.”
By traditions brought to Tananen by their forebears, older than holds and courts, female descendants could own but not rule, while the male could rule but never own. The same traditions named her for the first living thing she’d touched as a child, while Insom had been Insom Fisherson, named for his family’s role in the community.
Until her father died last year, putting Insom, the eldest male eligible, in his place.
A lordship temporary, should The Deathless Goddess decide him unworthy or flawed. Unlikely, Pylor thought comfortably. Her cousin made a good lord, possessed of caution and compassion.
If poor timing when it
came to her experiments. At her nod, Tercle put the crucible on a stand to cool. Only then did the damesen pull down her mask and dip her head in acknowledgment. “Welcome, my lord, but you’re premature. I don’t have an answer for you.”
An eyebrow rose, creasing the rank tattoos across his forehead.
“The scribemaster’s request. An alternative source for their inks. Aren’t you here for that?”
A man of action and decision, it was rare for Insom to hesitate. Rarer still to see a look of—was that confusion?—cross his strong features. It vanished beneath a frown as Insom waved at her waiting apprentice. “Leave us.”
Tugging her mask to hang around her neck, Tercle wiped her hands on her well-stained apron and looked pointedly at Pylor.
“Fetch more potassium salt from the stores, Tercle. If you please,” when she didn’t move at once.
The while, Insom stood like a rock, watching the apprentice leave, the door close behind her. He didn’t stir when the latch dropped with a loud clatter, Tercle tending to opinion.
Only once sure they were alone did his shoulders slump. He half-staggered, as if the effort to stand had been exhausting. He rubbed a now-trembling hand over his face. “Oh, Py—”
At once she stepped close to catch his hand in both of hers. “Cousin. What is it? What’s happened?”
“I—I’ve come to wit’s end. I can’t take any more,” he told her, his voice distant, eyes downcast. “I need help. Your help. Will you help me, Py?”
Never had he seemed weak. “Of course. In anything. Name it.”
“It’s—it’s—” He choked, as if the words turned themselves in his throat to gag him. Muscles clenched along his jaw and Py held tight. They were the same height but Insom was half again as broad and thick with muscle. He was her hold lord and ruler. Never had his voice grown faint or failed.
Insom drew a long, shuddering breath. “Forgive me, cousin,” his voice smooth again. “It’s this hermit mage, Maleonarial. I need you to go to the scribes’ school and question the masters about him and his magic.”
The Gossamer Mage Page 8