The flow of solemn people leaving the hall passed them to either side, exiting through a sequence of six tall doors supported by pillars. Not all could be nobles, but their clothing provided no clue as to social status. They must have attended a funeral service of their own for the scribemaster, for each held before their breast a small handled tool, its paddle-like metal blade chalked with his sigil, and most wept.
Pylor felt shamed. Her hold would do nothing but gossip about the next to lead the school and govern Tananen’s magic-users, their true concern whether fees would be raised or some new opportunity for profit arise. The man she’d known deserved better.
Deserved this.
She welcomed the distraction of the building itself. Accustomed to the austere magnificence of stone and marble, she found the hall entrance bewildering. It lacked any effort to impress or solemnize or keep out the unwelcome. Instead, pillars and arches were coated in tiny gleaming tiles, the resulting colorful pattern turning the former into tall twists of growing grass, while the arch over each door vanished into a dome of open blue sky. The tedious work of many hands, simply to make a pretty illusion. Why not use magic? Was the school not beholden to Alden?
When she said as much to Tercle, her friend shook her head. “They don’t allow magic here.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? Will you look at that,” Tercle murmured as they stepped under sky and through grass to enter a hall—that wasn’t one.
Oh, there was space to gather, tiled underfoot in elaborate whorls and sunbursts, but where there should be a ceiling was actual sky. A great swath of it, from the far end of the long hall to where they stood, letting the natural light indoors.
Along with a cold breeze to flutter cloaks and disturb hair. Metal shutters lined the opening, presently folded like misplaced fans; Pylor supposed they’d be employed to keep out storms. Here and there figures stood waiting, a white cup in hand, towel over an arm. Shadows brewed and shifted along the plain brick walls, making her glad their path—on the heels of the hermit mage and Alden’s hold daughter and lord—lay within the sun’s reach. Behind her and Tercle came Domozuk, Rid, and Harn. Kait and her son had been taken aside, but the old man from Woodshaven, the young farmer, Dolren, and the drivers and grooms followed them into the hall, as they wouldn’t in Tiler’s. There, business of the Daughter went to her Portion, of staff below, and Pylor began to despair of a chance to plead her case in private, if this was the manners of Alden Hold and rank accorded no special courtesy.
They were stopped by a rope of gold braid, looped from stands to separate the very back of the hall from the rest. The hold daughter ducked beneath it and went to perch on a stool behind. The hold lord remained on their side of the barrier, turning to face the hall, and Pylor was forced to believe the rope was, in fact, the sole division between their courts.
What sort of hold was this?
Narrow banners, inscribed with words, depended from the wall behind the hold daughter. So many, they extended from side-to-side, ceiling almost to floor, layers upon layers, and rustled like leaves in the breeze from above. Some were curled and yellowed by time, their letters faded; others, new. As Pylor stood waiting, good hand tight on the reassurance of her cane, she realized they weren’t words at all.
They were names.
* * *
Sael Fisherson. Mal Merchantson. Buried within a staggering multitude of other names, each left by a boy who’d arrived with the hint of whiskers and throb of Her Gift, displayed here for all to see as long as there’d been an Alden Hold to part son from family. In the otherwise immaculate hall, beneath the banners lay a line of fine brown dust and the tiles themselves were stained. The decay of names from generations untold, reverently swept up and stored, though sometimes the dust was stirred by errant breeze or motion, making new visitors sneeze.
Each banner, each speck of dust, marked more than a new mage scribe striding across Tananen, writing intentions to create what he would. This dreadful syllabus taught any who stepped in this hall the true measure of The Hag’s toll. Children who might have become other than mage; lived a whole life.
Could no one else see it?
“Maleonarial. Welcome back,” Lord Nedsom said. “I wish it had been under other circumstances.”
Under other circumstances, he wouldn’t be here, so Maleonarial smiled. “As do I, Hold Lord. Hold Daughter.”
However much he hated The Hag, She chose Her Daughters well, making those ruled by Her choices fortunate, especially here. Affarealyon, the woman before him, had governed Alden and influenced doings at the mage school since he’d first arrived, and looked fit and able to continuing doing so after the last of his new life was sucked away.
Governed well, influenced wisely, and now regarded him down the length of her nose as if he’d crawled from under her boot. “Left without farewell. Snuck through our gate in the night.”
They’d been close, once. Friends. Confidants. Not in this, but he offered a repentant bow. “To avoid debate, Hold Daughter.”
“On what you alone decided,” she admonished. “I want an account of what you’ve been up to, Maleonarial the Young-Again Mage. A thorough and detailed account.”
“Affar,” Nedsom pleaded out the corner of his mouth, giving him a sympathetic look. “We can’t delay Sael’s procession.”
One, in the scribemaster’s honor, all of Alden had turned out to watch. Maleonarial tried a second bow. “I promise an account before I leave, Hold Daughter.”
Her eyes doubted him. It hurt more than he’d expected. A curt nod. “Continue, Lord Nedsom.”
“We thank you for accompanying Scribemaster Saeleonarial on his final journey,” the hold lord proclaimed in a strong ringing voice, even though those to whom he spoke stood in a polite row steps from him and a couple winced at the volume. Seeing, he flushed and lowered his tone to normal. “Those granted permission by Affarealyon may continue from here.”
She lifted two fingers, swept them to the side. “Harn may return to his classes. Maleonarial—to whatever you’ll face.”
Attendants appeared at their elbows. “This way, sirs,” one said. Harn went without a word. Maleonarial stepped back, gesturing to indicate he’d stay a moment longer.
Affarealyon gave him an inscrutable look, then nodded to Domozuk and Rid to approach. “We grieve with you,” she told the pair. “Take your ease here.”
“By your leave, Daughter, we’ll see our master home,” Domozuk said. Beside him Rid Smithyson nodded, hat in hand.
The hold daughter shook her head. “You no longer have a master.”
“They do,” Maleonarial spoke up. “I’ve need of them both. Rid to drive the team. Dom to assist me at the school.” He made a show of brushing dust from a dead man’s clothes. “Unless you think I look ready for the funeral?”
Wrinkles deepened at the corners of her mouth. Instead of commenting, the hold daughter lifted two fingers, and swept them to the side.
Another set of attendants came to guide Dom and Rid. They’d be taken to join Harn in the next chamber off this one, offered the use of privy and washstand, then given a ceremonial quaff of Alden’s famed mulled wine before being hustled back to the wagons.
The damesen took their place, impatient or fearing Alden would deal with her servants first. “Hold Lord and Daughter.” She lifted her cane, pressed the handle briefly over her heart, then held it out for inspection. “By this, know me as the authorized representative of Tiler’s Hold Lord, Insom the Second. I am his cousin, Damesen Pylor Ternfeather, come on urgent business with the school’s inkmaster. I respectfully ask your leave to conduct it, and that Alden house my staff and property until my business is complete. At my expense.”
“Our business.” Her apprentice, having come forward with the damesen, lifted the lid of the box she’d brought into the hall. “Here are the samples we’ve prepared.” Emphasis on
the “we.”
Maleonarial leaned close to inspect the contents, ignoring the hold daughter’s quelling stare. Inside the box were six clear vials, each half-full of a powder of unmistakable blue. Lapis pigment. There’d been hints Icot’s mines were nearing exhaustion in his sojourn as scribemaster. Jowen Hammerson, Tankerton’s inkmaster, hadn’t seen the pigment in years.
“We were aware the scribemaster went to Tiler’s Hold to consult with you, Damesen,” the hold lord replied. He looked over his shoulder at Affarealyon.
Whose hand remained still.
Behind that life-weathered face was a mind Maleonarial knew well. The hold daughter would judge the business of ink supplies and samples likely to tarnish the dignity of Saeleonarial’s funeral, distracting the school’s masters from their duty. She’d keep the damesen in Alden Hold until the funeral was done.
Affarealyon’s gauge of the masters’ flighty attention span might be correct, but to get the urns out of Alden—for the mage was in no doubt what the damesen had meant by “property” and he’d let The Hag have them all before he’d leave the Fell behind in this innocent place—the damesen and her wagon full of urns had to go. Now.
Maleonarial moved to stand by the damesen. Dared put his hand over hers on the cane while keeping his attention on the hold daughter. “Damesen Ternfeather doesn’t speak of her friendship with Sael, so I must. She is a friend who should attend his funeral.”
He pressed lightly. Understand why I do this, that pressure asked, as aloud he continued, “As well, the damesen generously loaned her caravan’s second wagon to convey his belongings. Those must go to the school with her.”
Feeling her hand tense, he removed his, but the damesen made no other protest.
Affarealyon glowered at him. “Has the great Maleonarial decided on the rest for me too?” Without waiting for an answer, she swept two fingers through the air. “Go then. But the rest of your staff remains here in the hold, Damesen. At your expense.”
“Thank you, Hold Daughter.” The damesen’s nod was stiff but gracious. “Dolren, see to our people.” Without a glance his way, she left with Tercle and their attendants.
Insom’s servant bleated a hasty acknowledgment, forced to scamper to catch up to the caravan’s drivers and grooms, the group only too pleased to be led out the main doors and on to whichever inn was next on the hold’s roster to house guests.
The older man Kait had named her uncle paused to bow toward the lord and daughter. Beside him, Nim stared at Maleonarial, his good eye eloquent. Remember your vow, that look said. The farmer took the man’s hand, guided it to his shoulder, and led him from the hall after the others.
Alden’s remaining attendants fell in behind, leaving mage, lord, and daughter alone. A gust of wind through the opening above set the banners aflutter and stirred the dust of the forgotten. There’d be a bright new banner hung later today, in memory of a boy named Leksand Loggerson.
Doubtless where Kait and her son were now, Alden’s unmagical scribes making sure of the spelling.
Another life to consume; The Hag would persist in the habit forever unless stopped. Firming his resolve, Maleonarial bowed. “The teams are mine and expire this afternoon. By your leave—”
“A moment more.” The hold lord’s brows knitted together. “What haven’t you told us, Mal?”
Quick as a lad, Nedsom. No surprise now he sensed a hidden current to their words and actions and Maleonarial hesitated, tempted. They were alone. Every master still alive had left their name in Affarealyon’s care; Nedsom would have been her selection, trained by her to be Alden’s hold lord. No one could know the school or the twisted nature of its masters better.
No one feared magic more, or for better reason. Alden insulated itself from the mistakes of students by forbidding intentions, purposeful or otherwise, be written within its walls. No sons of Alden received Her Gift and even Her Blessed Gossamers stayed outside, in what masters suspected was a rare bargain with The Deathless Goddess. Not that any Alden’s hold daughter admitted such.
“Only that I’ve lived alone too long to be easy in company. Accept my apologies.” With a deeper bow, he turned and strode away before they could stop him again.
No more free to debate his purpose in this moment than all those years, and bells, ago.
* * *
A hold run like a village, free of segregated courts and courtiers with pretentious beards. A daughter from Woodshaven should approve.
A hold that offered well-practiced condolences over wine warmed with costly foreign spice. A name taken to be hung in their audience hall as if decorating Alden Hold healed a village lost a son. A hold grown rich on the magic mages spent their lives to create.
Kait Alder most adamantly did not approve a whit, but the face she showed those offering words and drink, and the scribe carefully copying letters, was composed and pleasant.
Not fooled, Leksand kept giving her worried little looks.
“When do we speak with the hold daughter?” she asked when the scribe finished, packing away her pens and parchment.
“Only the student-prospect—”
Kait raised an eyebrow. The acolyte closed her lips and nodded. “Affarealyon awaits you.”
They were escorted to a plain chamber and left, the acolyte closing the door behind them. There was a narrow table along one wall, a tray with an ewer of wine and cups centered on it. Beyond, another table with a basin, jug, and a tidy pile of towels.
Beyond that, the door to outside, closed.
They were alone but for the hold daughter. She stood by an open window, running a fingertip along the gap between bricks as if the aging of mortar held her fascinated.
How old she was, Kait couldn’t guess and didn’t much care. “I’m going to the school with my son.”
Affarealyon didn’t look around. “A daughter may go where she chooses.”
Good. Had a message from Tiler’s reached this far? Had Alden’s Daughter’s Portion been warned of the Fell?
Before Kait could decide, with Leksand present, how best to broach the subject of evil within the mortar of walls, her son spoke. “What of me, Hold Daughter? Am I to go to the school?”
“That depends.” She faced them, a presence solid as brick and as immutable. “Tell me, Leksand Loggerson, of your first morning.”
“I don’t understand.”
Her frown matched Kait’s, who turned to her son. “The morning you woke and felt Her Gift, Leksand.” It arrived thus for them all, daughter or mage: a dream as though the world fell away and you rose within the sky, gathered in gentle hands; the opening of eyes to find you weren’t the same and would never again be alone.
A mother knew that lip, taken between teeth. The whitening of fingers around the precious box. The effort to stand tall while not offering defiance. “Laddie? What ha’ ye done?”
He gave her a wide-eyed look. “I meant no harm, Momma. I wanted to serve, as you do. She said I could.”
Alden’s hold daughter surged closer. “Who said?” Affarealyon demanded. “What is all this?” directed at her. “His Gift is real.”
“Aie,” Kait nodded, eyes on Leksand. “Tell us.”
“I took a sock, a clean one, and tucked it in the old pine tree—the one where The Lady puts yours on washday. I stood underneath and prayed to Her. I promised to serve with all my heart if She picked me. To do my best to help you. That you’d be so proud.” His voice trailed away as he looked from one of them to the other, seeing their incredulity. Leksand flushed. “It’s the truth. The woman of the woods came and gave me her hand. When she touched me, that’s when I first felt Her Gift.” His face filled with wonder. “I had to come to you, right away. I knew She’d answered my prayer, that I could serve—”
“Mages don’t serve The Lady, child,” Affarealyon snapped. “They take from Her and pay the price.” She glared at Kait.
“Who is this ‘woman of the woods’?”
“A legend.” Kait fought to keep her voice steady. “The loggers speak of a mysterious woman who sometimes appears in the depths of the forest. She doesn’t speak, but her presence is a warning of a branch overhead about to fall, or of a gossamer in a tree they thought to cut. They don’t claim she’s The Lady.”
“They believe it, as does your son.” With scorn. “Is this what you teach where you come from, Daughter? Such dangerous, foolish lies?”
Where they came from, evil didn’t ooze from stone. It didn’t seal itself in jars or utter commands through the mouths of lord or bird.
Lies . . .
Blood pounded in Kait’s ears, every thought darker than the one before, as if she tumbled into a well and watched the light recede beyond reach.
Had The Lady taken her sweet son for no greater purpose than to ensure she, Kaitealyon and willing Designate, would go with Insom’s caravan? So she would discover the Fell? Be in place to thwart their plan for the school, whatever that was?
Was that why the Fell paid attention to Leksand? Did they sense that in him Her Gift was a ploy?
Was this why she no longer heard Her Voice?
Could a goddess feel shame?
“Well?”
A shadow crossed Leksand’s face. Kait shot him a warning look, then turned her attention to her counterpart. “Before you make accusations, Affarealyon, know that Leksand’s father possessed Her Gift too.”
“You’re far from the only daughter to lie with a mage.” A dismissive flick of fingers. “It makes no difference.”
It made every difference. Had Rogeonarial been her decision—or Hers? How far must she fall? The well was walled in slime-covered stone. From every crack spewed doubt—
“Momma. Kaitealyon!”
“What’s wrong with her?”
From below, a fume reached up for her, to seize her and pull her down—
“I don’t know. Momma, please!”
The Gossamer Mage Page 22