The phrase uttered by the Hold Daughter was: Have you walked with Me?
It commanded truth.
“Times without count,” Kait answered. The Lady would appear as a swirl of dried leaves or the glisten of a dewdrop. She announced Her Presence with the abrupt singing of a lark, or by the soft patter of rain. The world grew larger, warmer— “Always, in the woods. Until—” her voice broke and she collected herself. “I don’t know what I’ve done to lose Her Voice, but it does not excuse my fault in it.”
“The fault is ours, Kaitealyon.” Wendealyon’s lips turned down. “I hope you come to forgive us. Forgive me. We brought you here without warning of the cost.”
“It was necessary—” Urse began.
“Pain never is. We should have told you when you arrived, Kait. You and the other prospects.”
“To no gain.” The acolyte waved her glass dismissively. “Had we, would any come through our gate? Would we now have Kait, at long last another to hear what only you and I have?”
“The others do not—you’re sure?”
“I am.” Cold eyes regarded Kait from head to shoe. “Also, of them, Kait alone has had the courage to admit The Lady’s silence.”
“As you predicted, Urse.” The hold daughter gazed into her glass. “Take Ella and Mish aside. Tell them Kaitealyon of Woodshaven will be Tiler’s Successor-Designate, but they aren’t to leave.”
They spoke as if she didn’t stand before them. Said what she didn’t understand, but did, suddenly. And it wasn’t hope filling Kait, nor triumph.
It was dread. “The Lady—She doesn’t come into the hold.”
“She did. No longer.”
The grief in that, the loneliness—she’d felt both. Still did, but with a rising flood of outrage. “Now you’ve talking stone in Her stead? Yes, I’ve heard their foul voices. There’s nought o’good innit—nought o’reason.”
“‘Voices’?” The hold daughter gave Ursealyon a startled look.
“Well?” Kait demanded fiercely. Her hands became fists. “Wha’ ill ha ye brought here?!”
“Not our doing, I swear to you, Kaitealyon, by The Lady’s Gifts.” And such was the earnestness in Wendealyon’s face and tone, such was the potency of that oath, Kait felt her anger slip away and fear rise again. “Where did you hear it?” the hold daughter asked them both.
“On this level,” Urse said grimly. “It’s climbing again.”
“What is? What’s happening here?”
“We don’t know. Sit with me, Kait. Please. We’ve too little time before the audience begins.” When she had, the hold daughter put down her glass and reached for Kait’s hand, taking it in hers. They were cold and strong. “Understand, Successor-Designate, there can be no speaking of what I tell you next outside the three of us. Not yet.”
Kait pulled free. “There are no secrets among those with Her Gift.” How could anything get done, if some knew a thing, and others didn’t? “The Lady doesn’t permit it.”
The acolyte lifted a brow. “You know The Lady’s not here—”
“Enough.” Wendealyon regarded Kait with fond exasperation, as if she were Leksand come late to supper with another of his strange tales. “Very well. You will hear the truth, Kaitealyon, and decide for yourself, even as I had to, who else should know.”
Ursealyon’s lips locked in a disapproving line.
Kait’s heart fluttered in her chest, but she gave a grave nod.
“I’ll begin with The Lady.” The hold daughter’s pale gaze was haunted. “Like you, each of us believed we’d transgressed unknowingly and lost Her Voice. Then I asked my court, my sisters.”
“She’d abandoned us all,” Urse said quietly. “When we compared our experiences, The Lady last spoke in Tiler’s Hold the morning of the second of Darksmeri. The year’s highest tide.”
Tides. A villager from the mountains went to Her Mouth, climbed over rocks to gaze in equal wonder at exposed seabed and stranded fish. Could be excused for being confused now. “How is the tide important?”
“It meant no ship came or went that night.”
Ships being what exposed Tananen to the wider world. Think, Kait told herself, not ready in any way to contemplate succeeding Tiler’s Hold Daughter however distant that future. To earn the role, perhaps. “You must have sent acolytes from the hold. To see if—”
“If this was the end of all things?” Wendealyon finished, her face grim. “Yes, we feared that. How could we not? To our relief, The Lady continued to speak elsewhere. And our dread. What had we done to lose Her Grace? I went myself, disguised, to offer myself as sacrifice, hoping it would be enough.”
Kait nodded in unconscious agreement. This too, was being a hold daughter.
“But when I passed through Her Veil, The Lady spoke to me thus: ‘ ’”
Defend Me!
Her Words sank into Kait’s bones, leaching away safety, stripping any certainty she possessed, wiping clear the world she’d known with a power the mapmaker would have envied.
Irrefutable truth.
But what could threaten a goddess?
* * *
“Here. I meant to give this to you yesterday.” Domozuk held out his hand. On the callused palm glittered a tiny round bell.
Maleonarial dug fingers into the thick locks hanging past his shoulders, hearing the sullen chime of hundreds. “I’ve enough, don’t you think?”
“Not for me to say, sir. You’re the mage. A bell for each intention. That’s the rule.”
Did he still abide by any? That was the question in the other man’s troubled look. Without argument, Maleonarial took the bell. “Thank you, Dom.” He gave a helpless shrug. “I’m not sure what to do with it.” His hair was as tangled and fouled as it had been before the village.
“Forgive my saying, sir, but a bath would be a good start.” Features twisted in a grimace, the servant gestured. “And clothes that aren’t filthy rags.”
He hadn’t paid attention. Hadn’t cared. Suddenly, Maleonarial twitched, new skin prickling at the feel of soil-stiffened material.
Warming to his subject, Domozuk went on, “I put soap and a brush on a rock. Downstream. You’ll foul the creek, sure as can be. And I should bury those rags of yours. Burning them might choke us all.”
Maleonarial hid a smile.
* * *
Ursealyon was first to move, going to the breakfast table as if stocking up on food would help. Perhaps, to someone trained for battle, it might.
Wendealyon sipped on juice, wincing and probing her cheek with her tongue, as if Her Words left scalds in her mouth, but spoke nonetheless. “We first heard the stones this spring, late one night. The twentieth of Lightsmeri, to be exact. Urse and I were walking along the wharf. The air was heavy with storm and at first we dismissed it as the sound of thunder rolling in—but this was nothing natural. Nothing safe or good. Evil itself. You judged it so?”
Kait nodded, mute.
Wendealyon nodded to the acolyte. “When we realized only we were able to hear the Fell—for so we chose to call it, between ourselves—I decided the burden of The Lady’s silence sufficient for my court to bear, and neither issue the business of those outside it.” A challenging look. “Would you do differently, Successor-Designate?”
She’d taught Leksand secrets were poison. Believed it, with all her heart. But this? “I see no other course,” Kait admitted reluctantly. Tell Atta or Pincel of talking stones called the Fell? They’d offer her tea and kindly suggest a nap.
“The Fell’s moved up from the lowermost level since then. Slow at first. Quicker once you lot came.” Ursealyon touched the hilts of her blades. “We’d worried none of you could hear it. That we’d be on our own still. Glad of your help, Kaitealyon.”
Ludicrous. Of what help could she be? “Surely you’ve contacted the wis
e—other hold daughters—”
“Let the rest of Tananen know Tiler’s Hold can’t be trusted?” Ursealyon replied, quiet but cold. “How long would we last?”
“If we fail, they’ll know soon enough. Peace, Urse.” Wendealyon’s hand gestured, sweeping from the acolyte to Kait, coming to rest over her own heart. “We must contain the Fell here. Thwart this evil, whatever it may be. The Lady has chosen us as her bastion. We will not question Her Will.”
Prideful, to name the three of them The Lady’s defense. Rank folly too, Kait would have judged, but she met the other’s eyes and read them as if looking into a mirror. Fear, yes. But also a defiant courage.
The Lady was more than the embodiment of magic; only Her Will kept it in balance. If, however inconceivable, She could be harmed, Tananen would suffer the consequences.
Kait bowed her head under that truth, then raised it, her voice calm despite the hammering of her heart. “What must we do, Hold Daughter?”
“Discover what lurks in our hold. Learn the Fell’s true nature—its vulnerabilities. Protect Her. Tell me what you heard from the stone, for you’ve heard more than we.”
Without thinking, Kait pressed a hand to her heart. “I heard breathing. Like cows in a barn, but not—not natural. Then muttering.” She moved her hand to her forehead. “Vile, it was. Confounding, as though several spoke at once, or one spoke in many voices. I’d nought of sense from it.” She dropped her hand, firmed her resolve. “But purpose, aie, that was plain to me. What’s in the stone wants destruction and death.”
“Of The Lady?”
“Of everything.”
Their faces mirrored the horror Kait felt, but she’d given them the truth.
“We begin in a few moments,” Wendealyon said at last. She nodded to the lattice and hall beyond. “Listen with more than ears, Kait, to today’s audience. For what shouldn’t be here. What it might say. Anything you can tell us.”
“Breakfast first,” Ursealyon said grimly. “From now on, we stay battle ready. Treat each respite as your last, Kaitealyon.”
So the three resumed eating their porridge and salty bits of fish, the humble daughter from Woodshaven doing her best to chew and swallow despite a mouth dried by fear.
* * *
Long shadows flowed over the cobblestones, shifting with each passing moment like something alive.
Insom’s nonsense. Pylor avoided the shadows nonetheless. She’d arrived to find the courtyard empty save for those assigned to see the hold lord’s cousin speedily on her way. Two freight wagons, with drivers. The hold lord’s gaudy carriage, with its driver and groom. A small harried troop of guards trying to deal with real, not made, horses. They should have asked the scribemaster for more before he left.
She could have waited to be summoned. Instead, she’d abandoned Tercle to pack what samples they’d been able to prepare; no doubt the scribemaster would want his answer, if not her cousin. Blurted instructions to a servant to arrange suitable clothing. Shed her mask and apron, grabbing a cloak on the way.
That she felt safer, here and outside the walls, disturbed her.
That Insom anticipated her haste disturbed her even more. His gift had been waiting for her, delivered by a guard at the courtyard door.
With her good hand, Pylor fingered the handle of the cane. Silver, it was, fashioned as the humped back of a whale, leaping from the waves that formed the collar. The wood of the shaft was finished in a deep blue that darkened to black toward the tip, a reminder of the vast depths beyond Tiler’s Hold’s safe harbor. An heirloom and treasure, this. The mark of her authority as Tiler’s Hold Lord’s appointed representative outside the holding.
They whispered about her, within it. Spread wicked little tales why she—unquestionably brilliant and accomplished—hadn’t been selected by The Lady for Her highest service as hold daughter instead of Wend Sharktooth of the docks. Why she—of noble birth and useful connections—had yet to seek a marriage to better the hold.
Let them whisper. Pylor was well content. Could others say the same? Those few granted Her Gift were obliged to enter the shadow court; a commitment, however worthy, reducing their options in life. Without that calling, women of rank were expected to enter a profession and, yes, obtain worthy partnership.
Pylor had no interest in the latter. Her—and Tercle’s—work with inks was of such renown the scribemaster himself, Saeleonarial, had come to Tiler’s Hold to consult her. The mage school made its own inks, as did its masters, and traded for crucial ingredients. Saeleonarial searched for a reliable supply of the rare gemstones that were ground into a rich blue pigment. Presently, these were obtained from Icot Holding, but that hold’s lord had abruptly raised the price an outrageous amount. It might be time, Saeleonarial had proposed, to look outside Tananen. Could she identify the best source?
A man of accomplishment, refreshingly humble and open to ideas, even if Saeleonarial was too canny to fully disclose his school’s needs. She’d been close to identifying the right markets to approach—the hinterlands of Lithua offering the greater quantity, but not every mine’s product was equal—when Insom and Wendealyon sent the scribemaster chasing after the hermit mage, frustrating her efforts.
As he sent her.
Restless, Pylor wandered to the first freight wagon. She kept her left hand tucked inside her cloak, the thumb hooked in a belt to prevent jarring. The pain rose and fell in queasy waves, but the damage appeared minimal. A finger bent, not broken. Tercle’s hasty binding would do for now.
Guards stood at the covered back of the tall wagon. Guards who didn’t shift aside at her approach. Pylor tapped the cane suggestively.
“I’m sorry, Damesen Ternfeather,” one said, staring past her shoulder. “No one is permitted access to the cargo.”
Whatever it was, she’d be delivering it to the mage school. “It’s my cargo,” Pylor told them.
Both stiffened. “Hold Lord’s orders,” said the other guard.
So. Insom hobbled her from the onset. She tapped the tip of a green-stained finger on the silver handle, her only outward sign of frustration. Under other circumstances, she’d have been delighted to be sent to the school, the one place in all Tananen where The Blessed Lady granted Her Words be taught to students.
The one place outside her laboratory where minds of equal skill labored over inks and parchment with justly famed diligence. Their records alone—
Knowledge must be pure.
To arrive burdened with secrets? The Goddess take her cousin—Pylor’s attention shifted to the carriage where her apprentice, newly arrived, stood vociferously defending the case of samples in her arms from the over-helpful servant trying to take it.
Before she could move to take charge, the courtyard door opened and Insom stepped through, dressed for court. Guards and servants snapped to attention.
Tercle grabbed the sample case, triumphant.
Her cousin didn’t wait for her to approach, his great strides covering ground as if it was all he could do not to run.
Strides that avoided the shadows. A face as grim as she’d ever seen it, and cold thrilled through Pylor even as her injured fingers throbbed with heat. Which version of Insom was this?
The public one, she realized when he stopped short of a collision and bowed graciously to her. “My dearest cousin,” he began, then stopped, gaze transfixed by the nearest covered wagon. As abruptly, his face cleared and he smiled broadly. “Excellent. Your gifts for the school’s masters are ready.”
Fair enough. Mage scribes weren’t above bribery. Still. Pylor lowered her voice. “Surely I should know what they are, my lord.”
His smile became fixed and unnatural. “You will.” Before she could argue, Insom seized her elbow and drew her to the carriage, too quickly and rough. Tercle dared scowl but edged out of the way. “Leave as soon as your companions arrive,” he ordered, pushing her
at the steps.
Companions explained the too-large carriage.
If nothing else.
Pylor hesitated. “Cousin, remember your vow,” she urged so only he heard. “Seek help, please.”
For an instant, an eternity, his face softened. “Py—”
Black lightning flashed across the whites of his eyes and she flinched, scrambling into the carriage, the cane awkward and smacking the side.
Huddled inside, Pylor feared any help would come too late.
* * *
Hanks of hair came loose when he dunked his head in the chill stream. Maleonarial tried to catch them before they floated away, but they squirmed like eels through his fingers. What remained attached was cleaner, if not yet clean. Dutifully he rubbed the bar of soap between his hands—for horse leathers, by the nose-burning smell—till he’d a lather, then attacked a smaller section of scalp.
Meanwhile, a coil of dark smoke rose from Domozuk’s fire. His clothes—his rags, the mage scribe corrected—set free too.
Freedom. He felt none of it, nor need. It was enough to be consumed by purpose, cleanliness a step forward, nothing more. To slip through Tananen unnoticed would be impossible. Those with Her Gift would recognize his. Whether they knew him as Maleonarial the former scribemaster or the scandalous hermit mage was irrelevant. The tinkling bells in his hair proclaimed his mastery.
His youth, well, that would puzzle them.
Puzzle, and entice. He possessed what they all wanted, and there was nothing a mage at his desperate hundred-and-fiftieth bell would hesitate to do in order to reclaim his own life.
Maleonarial grabbed a fistful of wet hair and bells. He could shave it off—or most. Pretend ineptitude. Claim to be a student, tossed from the school. There were a few such.
None with ability. The masters at the school knew better than set those loose on everyone else. Besides . . .
The Gossamer Mage Page 10