The Gossamer Mage

by Julie E. Czerneda

  She does not.

  Magic, once, was untouched.

  Now magic is not, for those who survive have added themselves to what magic is. They take it in. Spew it forth. Change what was. Create what’s never been.

  Only She remembers the truth.

  And weeps.

  FRAUGHT PASSAGES

  “Kin’ye do sommat o’the flies?” The driver used his hands to shoo a growing cloud of insects from Saeleonarial’s wrapped corpse. “Well?” Rid demanded, his eyes red-rimmed and angry. “Kin’ye ’r no?”

  The warm sun, welcome on shoulders and backs, didn’t help. Soon it’d be the stench of rot and Rid wasn’t wrong, to want dignity for the scribemaster’s return.

  Another intention. So be it. Maleonarial sat cross-legged in the dust of the road. The others, curious perhaps, stood in a circle around him. They blocked his light, but no matter.

  Preserving meat was one of the earliest learnings at the school. If Harn hadn’t created a gossamer already today, earned a bell with nothing to show for it, he’d have used the opportunity for a lesson.

  Had he been a master still.

  Maleonarial opened Harn’s bag of supplies. Spared a moment to regret Saeleonarial’s doubtless fine pens and inks, ground into the dirt by Cil’s gossamers, but these would do.

  He set to work. First, to concentrate. Find the words he needed, Her Words, arranged in the correct sequence. An unexpected struggle, finding the discipline to check each.

  More so, to resist the pounding urge to hurry and do this. To call forth magic. To have the surge of satiation nothing else gave.

  He owed Harn a certain sympathy.

  Magic requires purity.

  Maleonarial focused on his purpose. Saeleonarial didn’t deserve to hang over a made-horse, his corpse plagued by hungry flies and beetles. His fault.

  Her doing.

  The nib drew up ink. He stroked the tip over a scrap on his knee, each move sure and complete. Word over word, none legible, all of power.

  A breeze tugged, a line shifted, and magic spun and spilled across his hands, consuming the parchment. Drew breath. Grew shape and size. And even as exultation rocked him, so did fury as the gossamer, for it was that, rose and spun and laughed in his face.

  Topaz eyes. Pearled skin. Whiskers or feathers or both, the thing was a shimmer of wild poetry, soaring higher and higher into the dull leaden sky, taking into itself all color from the world.

  When at last it plunged beneath the road, to go wherever it chose, Maleonarial heard the others sigh with wonder and regret.

  Hag. Silently he cursed Her meddling, his carelessness. He’d no life to spare, not from his hunt.

  He dipped the pen once more and wrote his intention on a fresh scrap. Out of it came what he’d intended, a flesh keeper. Maleonarial poked the end of Harn’s pen into the palm-sized red ball, hooked it, and rose to his feet. A flick, and the ball sailed to splat against the rump of what had been a man. A friend. Wise. Kind. Good.

  The keeper spread on contact, becoming a patch, then a sheet, widening and wrapping until the corpse was bound within a shroud of red.

  Meat, ready to transport. Those who’d sighed at the wonder of a gossamer looked askance at him for this.

  Anger wanted a target. They deserved none of his and Maleonarial found himself saying calm as could be, “Let’s get him home. It’ll last till then.”

  Two more bells.

  A shame they weren’t enough to cool his blood.

  * * *

  Travel where she’d never been. Ask learned scholars about what most likely none knew, while—according to Ursealyon—being careful to avoid the topic of how a lowly daughter from Woodshaven, Tiler’s Holding, could see what no one else had.

  They mustn’t spread fear, the acolyte warned. Mustn’t permit doubt.

  Unless they were too late, the Fell spread everywhere and their efforts futile—

  Kait refused to believe it. The phrases still throbbed along her bones, commands to offer strength, give purpose. Defend Me! Be My Designate.

  What matter the opinion of others? The Lady needed help.

  Improbable as it seemed, that’s what she was. At least, Kait reminded herself, she was good at asking questions.

  Ursealyon escorted her to the door to the courtyard, doubting her resolve, perhaps. Once in sight—and in smell—of the bedlam outside, the acolyte stepped aside, leaving Kait alone at the top of the stairs. No acolytes would travel with her. There were no seals or documents in the small pouch at her belt.

  Her Gift must be the bond to open doors and unseal secrets.

  First to cross the courtyard. Below Kait was a daunting forest of beasts and people, encircling hills made of freight wagon and fancy carriage. Everyone was shouting instructions; few were being heeded.

  She couldn’t spot Leksand or her uncle, surely already here. Though unlikely their transport, the fine carriage was closest, a point of stability in the mass confusion. Kait headed briskly down the stone stairs, aiming for that.

  No one let her through, being preoccupied with their own feet and business. Being smaller, she ducked under elbows and flailing whips. Not so easy to dodge horses who, not being made, had every right to tense and kick if a stranger hurried too close. She needed to dodge what such horses left on the cobbles too, something Kait realized when she stepped in a hot fresh pile.

  Having but two shoes to her name, Kait kept her head up and pretended her left foot didn’t squish and slip as she continued. The smell she’d worry about later.

  A wall of shoulder-to-shoulder velvet stood between her and the carriage. Having come this far, Kait tapped the nearest.

  A head turned. Eyes squinted down a long nose at Kait. Their gaze fixed on her soiled shoe. “What do you want?”

  “To get through, if you please,” she said firmly. “I’m expected.”

  “I hardly think so. Move along.” Fingers flicked.

  By the ceremonial key dangling from the chain around his neck, the man was the hold lord’s major-domo. Kait didn’t know his real name. Acolytes referred to him as “Squid.” Whatever one was, he’d earned the name by, so she’d been told, an ability to claim credit for work done by others.

  Ignoring him, Kait put her fists on her hips and bellowed. “You want this caravan out of here, let me pass!”

  She’d good lungs. Even so, it was a surprise when the bodies in front of her parted as though blown apart by a wind and she came face-to-face with Insom the Second.

  Who stood with his arm around her son.

  * * *

  The carriage lurched forward. They were underway at last and Damesen Pylor Ternfeather kept her hands atop the handle of her cane as she regarded those seated across from her, imposed upon her, concealing her dismay. The boy and old man were well dressed, after the fashion of mountain folk. She knew what they were and dismissed them.

  The woman—clearly the mother—looked a servant but wasn’t. She’d fooled Insom, who’d treated her with absent courtesy, his attention lavished on the young mage-to-be.

  The conveyance settled into an easy rock from side to side, the horses stretching into their travel gait. “We weren’t introduced in the haste of our departure,” Pylor began. “I’m the hold lord’s representative, Damesen Ternfeather. And you are?”

  Large brown eyes, a match for the boy’s, gazed back serenely. “My name’s Kait Alder, late of Woodshaven, Damesen Ternfeather.” Her accent was barely perceptible to the discerning ear, a polish requiring study and effort. “This is my son Leksand and my uncle, Ferden Haulerson. We’re grateful to share your transport to the school.”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “Then even more so, please accept our thanks.” A slight bow: courtesy between equals. This was a woman whose voice mattered—in her village, perhaps in Tiler’s Daughter’s Porti
on as well. “We’ll do our best to be no burden to you or your staff.”

  Oblivious, the boy clutched the black gleaming box Insom had bestowed on him, his eyes still round with delight, but the older man nodded a quick agreement. “Aie, your graciousness. I kin help—”

  A shoeless foot nudged his shin. “I’m sure the damesen’s staff have no need of it, Uncle. We’ll care for ourselves.” With a lift of her head that, yes, held authority.

  Did Insom know Wendealyon sent her representative to the school with his? Pylor doubted it, though by rights, her cousin should have made that offer directly to the hold daughter.

  Were their goals the same, to learn of the renegade and his magic?

  A question she would have answered before reaching the school. Meanwhile, Kait’s shoes were with Dolren, who’d been ordered to ride with the driver and be sure they were cleaned. A bright point in an otherwise tedious morning and Pylor allowed herself a smile. “I won’t hear of it. Ask whatever you need on our journey. My staff is up to any challenge.”

  Tercle made no comment, disapproval radiating from every pore, as it had since the strange confusion of their departure.

  Her cousin’s doing. Insom wanted them gone.

  . . . then didn’t, lingering to put his arm around the boy.

  Brought the boy his gift.

  . . . then walked away with it under his arm.

  Turned back after a handful of steps, his movements jerky and odd, to thrust the box at the boy, bending to whisper in his ear.

  . . . then shouted they were to leave, smacking the side of the carriage with a fist, swearing in dockside fashion at the guards when they didn’t hurry to his satisfaction.

  To stand abruptly still, hand over his mouth, as if wanting to call them all back.

  Pylor’d stayed in the carriage, watched this play past a curtain she’d held half-closed. A coward, unwilling to face this man she thought she knew.

  Afraid she wouldn’t know him if she did.

  The carriage rattled through the gateway and tunnel, tilted as they turned onto the so-called Easy Road. Pylor eased her sore fingers from the cane, gesturing to the box to hide her discomfort. “Feel free to open it. My cousin is known for his generosity. I’ll admit I’m curious what he’s given you, young mage.”

  Sock toes poked when the boy didn’t answer. His gaze shot up, face turning red. “Whaddaya say?”

  “You kin open yer present, laddie,” Ferden urged with a gap-toothed grin.

  “Oh no.” Arms gathered the box close. “I’m not to look until we’ve passed Her Veil. Lord Insom’s command.”

  His mother’s frown was quick and gone, but Pylor caught it.

  Shared it. Insom provided freight she wasn’t to see, now a gift to be kept hidden. She was tempted to insist.

  The carriage and occupants lurched sideways. Her guests looked alarmed and Pylor didn’t blame them. “Hold on,” she advised, taking hold of a strap herself. “There’ll be several more switchbacks as we climb.”

  They followed her instructions. As the man and boy settled, eyes closing in exhaustion, Kait twisted to press her face to the window, looking up and down, forward and back.

  What could she hope to see? The cliff obscured one side, the mists of Her Veil the other. But the woman stared out nonetheless, so Pylor felt compelled to do the same, eyes straining in search of what she didn’t know.

  Loath to ask, and find out.

  * * *

  Knowledge is magic.

  Mage scribes study Her Words, rehearse the proper combinations in their minds, never commit those to pen and parchment until certain. That is how an intention comes to life.

  And the mage lose some of his.

  By his two hundredth bell, Maleonarial could write every known combination of Her Words, certain and sure. By his three hundredth, or thereabouts, he’d stopped caring about certainty, sure only of his purpose.

  As for gossamers?

  He’d lost count. It was possible he’d created more than any before him, being heedless of anything but severing the link between The Deathless Goddess and Her magic.

  And their lives.

  He’d tied the new bells in his hair. He hadn’t made a mistake, hadn’t been careless, yet a gossamer he’d made. Something had moved the scrap the tiniest bit as he wrote upon it. Enough to distort a word—he couldn’t be sure which—

  —or what—

  “—barge.”

  A blink reset the mage among his weary companions. The road had left the hills to meet the lowlands, turned north to follow the first canal they’d encountered. The head-high coil of silt left by last night’s dancers steamed, ripe in the autumn nip. Farmers would be along to take their share. Trees marched the other side. Their bare branches framed scudding clouds and long v-shaped strings of geese heading south and Maleonarial could almost taste snow on the wind.

  “Stink’n barges.” Rid spat. “Why n’ride t’Alden?”

  “I’d have no backside left?” Harn muttered, squirming with a wince.

  Domozuk pointed the pennant at the made-horse and its sad burden. “By barge, we could have him to the school tomorrow.”

  Too soon. Too late. Both were true and could not matter less. There were other reasons for a change in travel mode. Tough, Domozuk and Rid, but older; Maleonarial knew full well the misery of cold ground on aging bones. The farmer, Nim, could handle it, but he and Harn were injured and deserved proper care. Add the strain of riding—even his renewed body felt it. The mage gave a slow nod. “The closest port is Nor Holding.”

  “Aie. If we push hard today, we should make the russet barge.” Domozuk noticed Nim’s questioning look. “I was in charge of the scribemaster’s travel. There’s not a schedule in Tananen I don’t have in here.” He tapped a thick finger to the side of his head. “Saffron, Blue, Brown, and Russet. Four a day leave from Nor, first at dawn, last at dusk. To Alden? Ten gils each of us, fourteen for the livestock.”

  “A fortune—” Nim protested.

  Rid’s thumb jerked at Maleonarial. “H’kin pay.”

  With an intention? The mage let an eyebrow drift upward, but Domozuk was already shaking his head. “We want passage, not to buy the barge. The Designate’s jewels will do. If that’s proper.” The scribemaster’s servant looked to him for assurance.

  The Deathless Goddess had consumed the young woman, Her Witness, even as she’d restored Maleonarial. His memory of those moments? Shards of glass, cutting deeper and deeper. Lips like fire. A voice of thunder and ice. Words vanishing before they could be grasped.

  As for who this woman had been—he would learn her name and honor it. Beyond that, her sacrifice had been the fate expected of her calling and his pity unwelcome. “Use them to pay, but keep an accounting for Tiler’s Hold Daughter,” Maleonarial ordered. “The gems were hers.” As the life of the acolyte had been.

  A needful reminder. It wasn’t only mage scribes who paid The Hag’s terrible price.

  * * *

  Kait held tight to the strap to one side of the carriage door and poked her head through the opened window. Mist kissed her face, dewed her lashes and lips. The rumble of the mighty Helthrom receded with each greedy stride of the team and they couldn’t go fast enough for her. Almost there. She’d seen nought but plain rock along their road. The Fell, whatever they might be, hadn’t spread beyond the hold walls. Soon, any moment soon, she’d hear Her Voice again. Relief bubbled in her chest.

  “Have a care! You’re getting us wet!”

  Sliding shut the window, Kait sat back, pushing damp hair from her forehead. Droplets splattered on the glass, obscuring the view. “We’re passing through Her Veil.”

  “We noticed.” The damesen’s apprentice, Tercle by name, glowered. Her feet protected a square case of dark wood with brass corners and she pointedly pushed it deeper beneath the seat s
he shared with Pylor.

  On the seat Kait shared with her kin, Ferden snored in his corner. Leksand, between them, looked up eagerly. “How far now?”

  Tercle closed her eyes in disgust.

  The damesen answered. “Barring delays? Alden is a full day’s travel, scribe-to-be. We’ll arrive tomorrow.” Pylor looked nothing like Insom, other than being as tall. An aquiline nose thrust from a narrow oval face. Her eyes were a vivid green and what showed of her thick hair beneath its dark wrap was as red as the threads on Leksand’s jerkin. Eyes edged with fine lines, as were her now-curved lips; older than Insom, those said.

  Leksand ducked his head, giving his mother a worried glance. Kait carefully didn’t smile. “Go on, then,” she advised her son. “It’ll be a longer trip if you don’t talk.”

  “Thank you, Damesen Ternfeather,” the boy said shyly, then, being young, went on in a rush. “Will we ever stop? To look around?”

  “We’ll stop as needful.”

  Without opening her eyes, Tercle elaborated, “Hard to take a piss while this thing’s bouncing about.”

  Oh, how he blushed. Kait took pity. “What is our route to Alden, Damesen? So we may know what wonders to anticipate.” Play the mountain villager. It was nought but the truth.

  Lips pursed unhappily, then relaxed. “I didn’t ask. Tercle will inquire at our first stop.”

  Kait had been grateful for their rushed departure, glad to avoid Insom and leave the hold behind. Perhaps she hadn’t been the only one.

  Light and shadow took turns filling the carriage. The scents of pine, then wet autumn leaves, then harvested fields entered the slotted vent, marks of their journey down the mountainside. The Lady remained mute, try as Kait might to be open to Her Voice. She remained hopeful, hard as it was as the hours passed.