He clutched a small box as though for courage. “Momma—”
“Kaitealyon to you.”
“Ye canna mean that,” the boy protested, voice threatening to crack. Not so old as his height suggested. A growth spurt.
“Don’t mean,” she corrected icily. “Oh, but I do.”
“Y’me Mom!”
“Wha’a y’uncle, y’blood, who took ye t’raise as h’own—”
“I did not abandon him, Momma. The crew gave Great-uncle their nicest bed. He’s already asleep.”
Her Gift boiled beneath the righteous anger. This boy wasn’t a Harn, to struggle throughout life to achieve a reliable competence. This would be, in Maleonarial’s trained estimation, a very dangerous student indeed. Rewarding, yes. Should Leksand survive his early lessons, he boded well to achieve mastery at a young age.
Should those around him survive too.
An intriguing pair. As a mother should be, Kait Alder was worried and anxious. These were nothing compared to the dread in her tone when she’d talked of hearing evil. This Fell. And that she’d “heard” a singer too?
Maleonarial had no intention of leaving her company. Kait could be the help he needed; a truth felt in his bones.
“Well.” She dropped the blankets to the deck as she took hold of her son’s shoulders, giving him a shake that became a hard, quick hug. “And well done. Other than interrupting a private conversation between your elders.” Stern.
His eyes shone as he gazed up at Maleonarial. “But I had to meet him, Momma. Her Gift—in him it’s—”
Kait shushed him. “Don’t talk about someone here as if they weren’t. This is Master Maleonarial, once scribemaster at the school. Mage, my son, Leksand Loggerson. Who usually minds his manners.”
His cue. The mage jumped lightly down from the crate where he’d been sitting, out of range, offering a hand with a bow. “Student Leksand.”
The red lacquer box glittered as the boy shifted it beneath an arm, brass fittings and silken edge caught by torchlight; a curiously rich item to be in the possession of a rural villager. Perhaps he minded it for the damesen. The boy’s hand was strong and callused. Unused to writing at a guess. Ordinarily a disadvantage but there were clues the lad had received a broader education than most from his village. A credit to his family and mother.
Who would lose him.
Making the daughter an ally. Perhaps.
None of this explained why the daughter—and Tiler’s—had lost Her Voice; The Hag had been nuisance enough on shore.
Quiet since, come to think on it.
He’d take Her neglect as a boon. “Come to our fire,” the mage urged. “Harneonarial will be beside himself wishing to meet you both. A brief courtesy,” he added, reading the weary slump of her shoulders. “No more.”
“Aie, then.” Kait bent to pick up the blankets.
Leksand had them first, using their closeness to plant a gentle kiss on his mother’s cheek and see her smile.
Maleonarial hid his. Ally indeed.
The others were nodding around the firebowl when they approached, too comfortable to seek their bedrolls, or too weary for the effort. Domozuk squinted across the flames.
Harn’s startled leap to his feet sent Rid toppling into Domozuk, who steadied him with a quick hand. “A Daughter! I—” The poor student brushed at his clothes. “Forgive me, I—”
“Forgive us, my good mage, for disturbing your peace,” Kait said pleasantly, offering her hand. “We wished to greet the others blessed by Her Gift, and to express our sorrow at the loss of Scribemaster Saeleonarial. I’m Kait. Kait Alder. This is my son, Leksand Loggerson. Of—what’s wrong?”
Harn shied from her hand as though it might bite. He looked to Maleonarial for help, then, with sensible concern, stared like an owl at Leksand.
“You’re his first Daughter in the flesh,” Maleonarial told Kait. “They won’t eat you, Harn.” Chuckling, the mage sat on the deck, crossing his legs, even now taking the time to enjoy the renewed flexibility of joints once gnarled and contrary. “Sit, everyone. We’ll be back to tiresome formality tomorrow.”
Harn dropped more than sat back down on his barrel. Leksand arranged the blankets for his mother, then copied Maleonarial’s position. He looked up at Harn. “Are you a master too, sir?”
Domozuk snickered. The fire’s glow hid the blush the mage was certain lit Harn’s face. “I’m a student.”
“Momma, did you hear?” Leksand’s delight was infectious. “Good sir, I’m to be a student—I hope to be,” he added. “What’s it like? Do you wear robes? Is there chanting?”
Kait ducked her head to hide a smile.
Harn appeared to grow. “Neither. We memorize Her Words,” he declared. “We try,” he confessed, gaze sliding to Maleonarial. “And we practice writing. A lot. And learn to make our own parchments and pens. Ink—I haven’t started that yet. It’s harder than it sounds,” he finished lamely, as though worried he’d said nothing to entice his fellow student.
“A mage scribe’s work is complex and difficult, Leksand,” Kait said. “Years of careful scholarship are required to attain mastery.”
Years of life, that too. Maleonarial saw no need to say what she knew full well, grateful for her kindness to Harn, who visibly blossomed.
“Years and years, Daughter Kaitealyon,” the student replied honestly. “But worthwhile. To watch your intention come to life, feel the magic work through you is—it’s incredible.” His face filled with bliss.
Leksand’s eyes widened.
Domozuk coughed. “I’d not brag about a gossamer.”
Once more, Kait came to Harn’s rescue. “You’ve pleased The Lady, Harneonarial, I assure you.”
Every time they bled life pleased The Hag. Still. “A mage scribe does his utmost to write the intention required,” Maleonarial pointed out, lest Leksand—or Harn—arrive with any other notion.
“About writing,” Leksand said eagerly. “What will I be asked to write when I arrive? Our gracious hold lord, Insom the Second, gave me this.” He put the box across his knees.
“Unless matters have changed?” Maleonarial smiled at Domozuk’s snort. “A formality, Leksand. You write your name in front of the assembled masters. Tradition holds this to be the last time you sign your birth name, but it’s more about assessing your skill.” The Deathless Goddess had a penchant for rural lads; few arrived able to read, let alone write. “Based on that, you’re assigned an appropriate mentor.” A task senior students loathed, regardless how many received that help themselves.
“I can teach you how,” Harn offered generously, if without tact.
Leksand’s eyes glinted. “Thank you, but I’ve a fair hand. Kaitealyon taught me well.” The lad missed the shadow crossing her face. “Here. Let me show you what I’ll use.” Clasps flipped and the lid lifted before Maleonarial could utter a word to stop him.
Firelight traced the exquisite shape of a pen, drew sparks from the gild of the inkpot, and even as Maleonarial heard Harn’s helpless gasp of longing—
Lust for both items—for the magic he could write with such glorious tools—burned through him.
He heard a voice, hoarse and ragged, order the boy to close the lid. Recognized it for his own only when the daughter snapped, “Mind yourself, mage.”
Came back to himself only when the pen was out of sight.
He’d thought The Hag distant.
Here was proof.
She remained all too close.
* * *
Mages. Cantankerous, self-centered, and peculiar, the lot of them, and that was being generous.
As for Maleonarial? Kait had never heard the like of him: old in magic; young in years. Though she knew full well how it had been done.
Leorealyon, as Her Designate, would have been the conduit. Spent, at The Lady’s need.
Not Maleonarial’s fault. Or was, if she counted his reckless use of magic in this quest of his. To end The Lady?
To end Her toll, by whatever means. On the surface, who could argue? Not a mother, given who slept beneath the carriage, wrapped in two of their three blankets, dark lashes curled over still-soft cheeks.
A daughter must. For magic filled Tananen, and only The Lady kept it, tamed it, made it serve Her people. For all their sakes, She must be defended. Kait was ready—would strive to be, with body and mind and heart—to be spent as Her Designate.
Against what might have come with them?
Unwilling to risk sleep, Kait sat against a wheel, blanket around her head and shoulders. She wasn’t convinced Leksand’s arrival had been what she’d heard, or all, not when she continued to be rocked by sickening dread. Were the Fell here?
Another had their doubts about this night or what roamed it. Lamplight limned the carriage curtains; the vehicle creaked every so often as if someone moved restlessly inside.
Someone not to take lightly. The damesen was under Insom’s orders—full, in Kait’s opinion, of his secrets. Could Pylor be trusted? Oh, how she missed her fellow daughters, Atta’s good sense and Pincel’s steadfast lack of imagination. Together they’d been more than three, they’d been Woodshaven’s heart and soul, and if with her now—
Her lips quirked. Used to her fancies, they were. They’d believe none of this one, and ply her with wine till she slept it off.
The sisterhood of the Daughter’s Quarters of Tiler’s Hold hadn’t been the same. There were too many of those raised there who looked askance at a stranger in homespun; too few among the prospects, vying for position. Mish, maybe.
Who wasn’t here, was she? Kait gave a silent, impatient snort. She wasn’t alone. She’d her family. She’d met the hermit mage, and while Maleonarial had perilous notions—was perilous, no doubt, himself—he’d knowledge and an open mind. Mayhap more than any she’d find at the mage school.
Where they’d arrive tomorrow. Domozuk had set out the details during their visit by the fire, stepping in with practiced ease to settle nerves frayed by the mages’ reaction to Insom’s troublesome gift. There’d be a brief stop in Alden Hold while teams were obtained—or rather made.
Hadn’t Leksand’s eyes lit at that?
Maleonarial had stared into the fire, his mouth a crooked line. He expected to write that intention; would do it, Kait guessed, however unwilling he appeared. Though from what Rogeonarial had whispered to her in the warmth of their bed, magic was its own reward, the euphoria linked to a successful intention greater than sex or love.
From the hold, they’d travel as one, the damesen having decreed Saeleonarial’s body be carried with respect and thus accorded space within a freight wagon.
The wagon presently loaded with food and supplies, goods the damesen had ordered offloaded for the use or profit of the barge crew. A loss Kait wouldn’t have thought acceptable even for a rich lord. By the grimace on Rid’s face, Saeleonarial’s former driver had agreed with her, but it was Pylor’s decision to make.
The firebowls had been replaced by torches at the corners of the barge. Warnings for any small craft in the canal, Kait supposed. If other craft used it. Frustrating, to have nothing but questions.
What filled the other wagon, that it couldn’t take more cargo?
Kait shuddered. By daylight, she’d have dared a look inside. Not now. By torchlight, the shadow between the two wagons looked like an opened black mouth, waiting to close.
Not a thought Pincel would have. Kait had always been the flighty one. Always the one who lost socks to The Lady and herself in the woods—
Who’d have guessed she’d wind up here and now?
* * *
“Wake up, Py. There’s a bloody great bird on the roof.”
Pylor cracked open an eyelid. She’d slept after all, if not comfortably, by the soreness of her head and neck. She tried to focus on Tercle’s face. “Par—Pardon?”
“It’s crapped on the luggage. I told the crew to shoot it for their supper but that fool Dolren is bleating we leave it be in case there’s gore and guts. Are you awake?” With suspicion. “Did you sleep at all?”
Another of Insom’s gulls, it had to be. She could hear it, feet waddling overhead. Almost feel its black stare.
“Not enough.” Pylor swung her legs over the bench, sitting up. She drew the coverlet close. “Tell them to leave it alone. It’s just a bird.” Would it were true. Yawning, she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, winced at the throb in her finger. Less, though.
Her apprentice, her oldest friend, noticed. “You need fresh ointment. I’ll put it on after you eat—”
Pylor waved fitfully. “Do it now. I’m not hungry.”
“You barely touched supper—”
“Leave be.”
“Bullocks, Py.” In private, Tercle took such liberties. “You’re churned up tight as I’ve ever seen you.” She sat on the other bench, eyes fixed on Pylor. “Over what?”
“I want—I—” Say her cousin’s been possessed by a dark force from The Brutes? That their hold lord obeyed this force in some scheme requiring she deliver fourteen sealed urns and a student mage from Woodshaven to Alden’s school?
By the light of day, it sounded foolish, even to her. “This news about Saeleonarial,” she replied, which was true and more than grief. “I’d counted on his support to clear up this hermit mage nonsense.”
“You won’t need it. Here, now. Give me your hand.” As she unwrapped the bandages, Tercle leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’ve learned a mage travels with Domozuk. A mage with hundreds of bells who looks no older than Insom himself.”
“That’s imposs—” the rest a hiss as Tercle applied the ointment. Pylor waited impatiently until she finished. “Did you get his name?”
“Aie. Maleonarial. You’ll remember it. Despite his look, they swear he’s the same mage as was scribemaster before Sael. Best of all? That he’s lived on his own for the past twelve years—and was found in Riverhill!” She tied off the bandage and leaned back with a triumphant, “Your hermit mage is here, Py, with us. You can learn what Insom wants from him, then we’ll head home.”
Triumph didn’t lurch inside her chest as if her heart tried to escape. Success didn’t fill her ears with the frantic pound of blood.
Foreboding did.
The urns. The boy and his gift. Now this mage and his magic, all going to the school.
Was this what Insom wanted?
Or what lived inside him.
* * *
“No.”
Sweat beaded Harn’s forehead despite the chill air; though daylight, the pupils of his eyes were dilated. If Maleonarial hadn’t known full well what ailed him, he’d have worried the student fevered from his broken wrist.
“Sir. Please.”
Magic must be used.
Her Gift arrives, opening the world. The mage-to-be gains a new, richer sense, but it is potential without purpose.
Knowledge must be acquired.
Learning the first few of Her Words is a revelation, for they feel familiar, as if always known. Tempting, to sort them into meaning, but pointless, for there is none to find. Only Her Daughters comprehend a language and that is their portion of Her Gift.
For mages, Her Words are puzzle pieces, some fitting together better than others, patterns flowing from experience. The more Words learned, the more a mage can do.
Must do.
“Please, master.” The fingers of Harn’s good hand, his writing hand, twitched.
Magic must be used. Students are taught the easiest Words first, so they might form an intention and create only what is small, short-lived, and harmless. That first intention, if successful, changes the student to mage. Someone who has tasted the exultation of creation, paid Her p
rice, and will henceforth seek the former and pay the latter till death.
Harn’s gossamer hadn’t been harmless. With its creation he was afflicted for life with the longing for more. Maleonarial had expected this moment sooner. Had hoped it’d be later, within Alden’s school and safe.
Leksand’s pen had tipped the scale.
“You’ll not put hand to pen or ink, Harneonarial, till at the school,” he ordered. “If you can’t control this, I will have you bound for your good and ours—funeral procession or no. Do you understand me? Is that what you want?”
The student gave him a wild look, then shuddered and wrapped his arms around his middle. “I do, sir. I swear.” He sank down on a barrel, rocking back and forth. “I didn’t know it would be like this.” With pain. “Will it always be like this?”
No, it would be worse.
“You’ve done well,” Maleonarial said quietly, hating himself in that moment as much as The Hag. “Saeleonarial would be proud of you, as am I. You’ll be at the school and settled before the masters take their afternoon tea.”
“That’s not long, sir, is it. Not long.”
“Shorter if you keep busy.” Without temptation of ink or paint. “Domozuk’s preparing the wagon for the scribemaster. He and Nim could use help.”
Color came back to his cheeks. Harn took a steadier breath. “I can do that, sir. Thank you.”
“Go on then. But Harn,” as the student stood to leave. “Come to me, if the urge grows unbearable.”
Sweat-damp ringlets bobbed with the vigor of his nod. “I promise, Master Maleonarial.” He dashed away, clumsy with hope.
Rid, a silent witness, spat eloquently over the rail. The mage raised a brow. “You’d have done differently?”
“Aie. Tied’m up proper,” with a scowl. “N’tell’n h’notions.”
The Gossamer Mage Page 18