“Harn isn’t a threat,” Maleonarial disagreed. “Whatever notions he gets.”
The older man studied him. “Wha’a’yorn?”
The mage half smiled. “Fear not, Rid. Mine will leave with me. Now, tell me more of Sael’s favorites.”
* * *
Distanced from the sea and Tiler’s Hold, Kait refused to add dried fish to her porridge, though she thanked the one who offered it. She was more grateful for the mug of hot sweet tea. Her mouth felt like caterpillars had spun webs in it.
Teach her to pretend to sit a watch, like a guard at a wall. She’d fallen sound asleep against the carriage wheel; startled awake when Tercle emerged with a cheerful “Breakfast’s waiting.” Gone to get her own and come back amid the general stir of people.
Her son remained a peaceful lump within blankets, oblivious. Kait made herself comfortable against the low barge wall, sat where she could watch him, sipping her tea, as she’d done mornings without count. She supposed she could wake him. Have more time together. Talk.
Try to wake him, more like. Stirred too early, he’d rouse a grump. Better this. A mother’s moment.
Her last—
“Arrk arrk!”
Far from the sea, yet afflicted by a noisy gull. Kait eyed the creature. Perched on the carriage roof, it tilted its head to aim a yellow-ringed eye at her. Tercle had waved her hands at it, to no avail. Bold creature. Maybe it wanted the little fish provided for porridge. “You’re in for a disappointment.”
The head tilted the other way, then the bird fluffed itself in the fashion of annoyed fowl everywhere and settled with its tail to her.
Kait resumed her tea and son-watching, unnoticed by anyone else. A small parade began, the sleeping gull apparently cause for concern. Bitters and his son took turns flailing at it. First a broom. Then rags. Having kept geese, she’d have told them the bird knew full well it was beyond reach, but their attempts were entertaining as they tried not to make undue noise.
Not that they’d have disturbed Leksand’s healthy slumber, but she supposed the damesen might be asleep, having been restless in the night.
Tercle returned with a breakfast tray and growled at the gull before climbing into the carriage.
Finished her tea, Kait put the mug aside. She’d get another when he awoke—
The carriage door burst open, Damesen Ternfeather taking the stairs at speed. She wore yesterday’s travel clothes and her red hair stuck out in a sleep-tousled mane. Tercle followed behind waving an impotent hairbrush. “Wait!”
The damesen spotted Kait. “You. Take me to Maleonarial.”
“Mmph—ma?”
“ARRK!”
Kait found herself on her feet. As was the gull, waddling to the roof edge to peer down, the damesen now staring up at it, and Kait earnestly hoped the bird didn’t aim a stream of its crap at the noble’s face—
Snatching the brush from her apprentice, the damesen threw it. Whether by skill or fury, it caught the bird square on its snowy breast and sent it flapping off.
As it disappeared from view, its screech of rage sounded like a man’s impassioned shout—
“Py, you can’t go out looking like that!”
“Momma?”
The damesen’s eyes found Kait’s; Woodshaven’s daughter knew desperation when she saw it. Knew what she’d heard, she thought uneasily, looking after the gull. “Back to sleep with ye,” she assured her groggy son, giving him her blanket.
While the damesen swept her errant hair back and tied it in a quick knot behind her head, gesturing angrily to Tercle to stay with the carriage.
To the mage it was. “This way, Damesen,” Kait said, heading toward the bow.
The damesen had longer legs. Most did; Kait was used to half-running to keep up, but the other noticed and slowed. “I need to see for myself,” subdued, troubled. “See him.”
Not how things were done in Tiler’s Hold; Kait had learned as much. “I could bring him to you—”
“He shouldn’t expect me. Surprise is best.” The damesen’s steps slowed nonetheless. A darting glance. “Unless he’s dangerous.”
Was he? Kait thought even Maleonarial didn’t have the answer. “He’s unusual,” she chose to say. “The Lady restored the life she’d taken from him. Made him young again.”
The damesen halted, so Kait must. “To what purpose?”
They’d stopped in the midst of the barge, subject to curious looks from nearby crew, stripping canvas from cargo in preparation for today’s landfall. Nim was helping. There were the drivers too, taking notice with their tea, and didn’t the Squid appear from behind a wagon, the man immediately taking interest—
The truth must be shared.
A worthy sentiment but not, Kait decided, with Dolren at any time. No one in Tiler’s Daughter’s Portion had had a good word to say about him, which she might take for spite and status talking had she not seen for herself how he snuck about the barge, avoiding work while prattling how others, such as Bense who’d fed them all, did too little. Dolren’d avoided her, till now, likely considering her and her family beneath such a fine and important servant as himself.
Showed some sense, that did, for Kait was ready to introduce the Squid to the canal if he picked her kin for his gossip.
Not now. Grasping the damesen’s good arm, Kait pulled her along briskly. “Over here.”
The closest privacy was behind the freight wagon not being prepared for the scribemaster. The damesen stopped short of its shadow.
The sun being warmer?
Or the shadow a threat.
“The Lady’s purpose,” the damesen repeated. “Why restore this mage and no others?”
She hasn’t told me—which wasn’t an honest answer, however true. Kait sighed inwardly. “I don’t know, Damesen. It concerns me too. As does this.” She put her hand on the tail flap. “What’s in here?”
“My cousin’s gifts for the masters.” Lips twisted. “No more games, Daughter. You aren’t here as a mother. Something’s amiss at home. Now this mage.” The damesen leaned close, green eyes intent. “Tell me what you do know. Please.”
A plea, not order, from someone as worried as she. Kait didn’t hesitate. “Amiss it is, Damesen. There’s evil at work in Tiler’s Hold.”
“‘Evil.’” Unlike Maleonarial, it was as though she tried the word for fit. The damesen shifted uneasily, glanced at the closed flap. “This isn’t—we mustn’t talk here. Come with me.”
This time Kait followed as the damesen led, moving between cargo to the front of the barge. The damesen put one hand on the rail, gazing out over the canal.
She did the same, squinting, but it was already too bright to discern the singer’s wings. Mayhap a warm rosy glow—
Erased by words, soft and horrible. “My cousin’s no longer himself. Some thing lives inside him. Controls his actions. As you said. Evil’s entered our home.”
The wind, of wings and nature, bit to the bone and that’s why, Kait told herself, she shivered. It wasn’t thoughts of Wendealyon and her sisters, of the people of Tiler’s being ruled by the Fell. Doubt felt an ally. “You distrust him because he hurt you.”
“This?” The damesen flicked her bandaged hand. “No. I say it because the voice from Insom’s lips isn’t always his, even when sent through his messengers.” A nod to the flock of gulls flying over the barge. “That’s the voice ordering me to see his gifts—and your son—delivered to the mage school.”
Her son, again? Kait’s heart hammered. What could Leksand have to do with the Fell? “Go on.”
“Insom told me—in a moment I believe he was himself—that some thing came back with him from The Brutes. He’s forced to obey it. Them. Claims he resists. That he fights back with lights and strength of will, but—Kait, I don’t think he’s winning. This evil in him is desperate to learn of the mage a
nd his new magic. Worse of all, I’ve seen—” She closed her lips, head raised in challenge. “You won’t believe me.”
“You’d be surprised what I’ll believe, Damesen, but hear this first.” Kait reported what had happened in Riverhill, as might a daughter to her hold lord, for how was this different? The damesen listened in shocked silence.
Kait finished with, “As for Tiler’s Hold? I’ve seen shadows move between the stones of its walls like lightning turned black. Venture forth like groping hands. I’ve heard their mutters, if not understood, and yes, Tiler’s Daughter sent me forth to do more than be a mother to my son. I’m to seek answers to this enemy we’ve named the Fell. Learn what we face and how to stop it.”
She left it at that. Wendealyon and Ursealyon. The Lady’s silence and Her exhortation to Defend Me!
Matters for those possessing Her Gift.
The damesen nodded, eyes now fierce and bright. “You give me my first hope, Kait. I too have seen this black lightning. It stains my dear cousin’s eyes when evil—the Fell—speaks with his mouth. Do you see what this means? We’ve a sign. A way to tell if this Maleonarial has been corrupted.”
Why—“You believe the Fell’s come with us.” On this now-tiny barge, afloat far from any help—Goddess save them. “That it’s here, now. Following. Watching.” She’d hoped to be wrong.
“Don’t you?”
A gull cried in the voice of a man. Or what passed for a man—
Now she feared it was true.
* * *
After Alden Hold, the barge would travel deep into the foothills to its final port, the junction of the canal with the mighty Helthrom River. There its singer would abandon it. The barge would tie up, ready for miners from holdings in the mountains beyond to load their metals and gems. Cast into the current, tillers manned day and night, the barge would drift, making its way south again and east until swinging into port at Nor.
There, claws would grasp its rings again, russet wings rise, and the barge once more be towed upstream, whether by the same singer, come to retrieve it, or by another of that color, no one could say.
Making the morning a busy one, for any passengers and cargo not meant for the northern holdings must disembark at Alden. Busier than usual, as willing hands applied paint to cloth so that pennants with the scribemaster’s sigil proclaimed the barge his funeral procession by the time the red spires of Alden Hold rose in the distance.
They’d painted the sigil on the sides of the wagon as well. Within, Saeleonarial reposed in gleaned splendor on pillows, blankets, and sleeping pads. The preserving shroud over the skin couldn’t be helped, but Domozuk had brushed and oiled the wiry beard into a semblance of order, then put the damned travel cap on his former master’s head, bells gleaming.
Maleonarial leaned his chin on his arms, folded atop the gate, regarding his old friend. Sael had liked his comforts. He’d approve. He’d have liked this Kait Alder too, and her son, not that Sael hadn’t been willing to like most people on sight. Everyone had their decent side, he’d argue. With some, like Xareonarial, you had to root around a bit to find it, but he’d insist it was there.
Maleonarial remembered taking the opposing view, to claim everyone had a nasty streak, simply to extend the debate. Once masters, both teachers, they’d talk through till dawn, most nights, intoxicated by scholarship and conversation. Sael’s wisdom—
Stolen by The Hag when he needed it more than ever. “You’ll pay,” he vowed under his breath.
Bells tinkled as he straightened and turned, Her Gift serving notice he wasn’t alone. “Daughter.”
“Mage.”
“Maleonarial.” The damesen towered beside Kait, frowning and pale. Her eyes glittered. “Hermit mage. Come with us.”
Kait he trusted. Insom’s cousin called herself Sael’s friend but, apologies to the late scribemaster, those were legion. He closed a hand on the gate. “What’s this about?”
“We’d rather show you,” Kait urged. “It’s not far. The other wagon.”
To be tied up and tossed inside, no doubt. “I’ve been kidnapped once lately,” Maleonarial informed them. “I think not again. Lord Insom will have to wait—”
A gull called out and both women looked up with fear on their faces. The daughter from Woodshaven seized one arm, the noble damesen the other, and he was too startled to resist as they pulled him along.
Their destination was, indeed, mere steps away, being the back of the second wagon. As it proved reassuringly free of surly men with ropes, he relaxed on that score, if no other.
“Quick. Get inside before anyone sees.” The damesen led the way with the alacrity of practice, climbing over the gate to disappear between the flaps.
Kait eyed the height dubiously. Without a word, the mage offered his cupped hands. She took off a shoe, tucked it under an arm, then put her little socked foot into his hands to be boosted up. Once astride the gate, she disappeared inside with a whispered, “Hurry.”
Shaking his head, Maleonarial stepped up and over, slipping between the flaps with care lest he step on her toes.
A flint rasped. Light flared.
The front half of the wagon was filled with tall ceramic urns, securely fastened for travel. Their tops reflected the light, casting myriad bright little spots over the wagon’s cover. Fascinated, he went close. They were stunning clockworks, elaborate and costly. “What’s all this?”
“A test.” The damesen stood by the coach lantern she’d lit, arms tight around her waist. “Check his eyes, Kait.”
“I told you,” the daughter said. “If he were tainted I’d know.”
The evil Kait had sensed in Tiler’s Hold. The Fell. She could mean nothing else and Maleonarial stared at the nearest urn, skin crawling. “What are these?”
He was ignored. “You promised. Look, Daughter.”
With a huff of impatience, Kait came to stand in front of him. “Show me your eyes, mage,” she ordered. “Nought less will satisfy her.”
He bent to meet her searching gaze, face aimed toward the light. “Tell me,” he breathed.
Kait waved to the damesen as she stepped back. “His eyes are clear. Tell him.”
“These are gifts for the masters at the school. One for each.”
Too extravagant to be mere gifts. Too many to be just for the masters able to return a favor. “What does your cousin expect in return?” he asked.
“I don’t know. They aren’t from him.” With something ominous in her voice.
He looked to Kait. “What did you seek in my eyes?”
Kait’s lips were shut. The damesen answered. “Proof you could be trusted. We’ll explain later. Do the urns mean anything to you?”
Maleonarial examined those in reach. Of the names he could read, six had been masters under his leadership. To still be able to receive gifts, they’d stopped doing magic, voluntarily or otherwise, when he’d left to do more. Three he’d known as traveling Tananen: mage scribes for hire. Daveonarial had retired in Aote to avoid teaching; maybe he’d returned to the school to avoid the greater danger of magic.
With a shrug, Maleonarial admitted defeat. “Nothing. Except the lids—” he held fingers behind a pyramid of glittering frogs “—would be gift enough. Each acknowledges an accomplishment. One of which that master would be proud.” Painfully so, for the oldest mages clung to past successes as if they’d help resist temptation instead of fuel it, regaling students and fellow masters unable to avoid them, mouthing the words of past intentions as if any but a daughter could utter them aloud. “I don’t see how they open.”
“Nor do we,” the damesen admitted.
Kait balanced on the netting between two urns, busy prying a gap in the straw mat around the nearest. Once through, she rapped her knuckles against the porcelain, frowning at the dull sound. “It’s full. Sand, for packing?”
Maleonarial l
eaned into the frog urn with a shoulder, gave it a solid push. The contents sloshed. “More likely wine. If so, Insom doesn’t know much about mages. We don’t care for drink.” Didn’t dare, was the truth, the longing to do magic difficult to resist sober and the ability to hold an intention fading with every glass.
Cruel Hag, refusing those She afflicted the comfort of oblivion.
He looked at the two who’d brought him. “What am I doing here, Damesen? Daughter? What’s this about?”
“Later, I promise. First—Kait.”
“Aie, Damesen. I’ll listen.”
“Wait. To what?” She’d heard the singer. Evil in Tiler’s stone. If whatever they sought here was the latter— “What do you think is in these?”
“Hopefully nothing,” Kait assured him, but her round pleasant face was grim. She went to press her ear to the side of the urn.
Froze before she touched the smooth glaze.
Eased back with lips set in a bloodless line, and only when she’d backed away from any urn, did she turn to them and speak.
“They’re here. The Fell.”
* * *
The whites of his eyes remained clear, his voice steady. Was that enough?
A mug of tea found its way between her palms. Kait, wordlessly taking care, though her eyes were haunted. Pylor thanked her by taking a sip when she wanted none at all.
“Insom had the urns sealed. To keep in the Fell and protect us?” Maleonarial said at last. “Or to keep us from discovering them?”
If it wasn’t enough, they’d given an enemy all they knew or guessed, for Kait had insisted she tell the mage everything. Pylor took another sip to hide how her hands wanted to tremble, measured him over the cup’s rim. “I say throw the damned things from the barge. Let Her beasts—the singers and dancers—deal with these Fell. Be done.”
“We don’t know what would happen. Not even The Goddess controls those in the canals. Though She has other means at Her disposal. Daughter?”
“The Lady remains silent.” Kait had gone pale. “It’s up to us. We canna let those seals break and free what’s inside, be it by dancer or rocks.” She looked to the mage. “Ye could warn the masters. H’them help keep the urns safe till we know what’s to be done.”
The Gossamer Mage Page 19