The Gossamer Mage

by Julie E. Czerneda

  Anguish, in her son’s voice. Pain. They shouldn’t be there, not in her son, and Kait began to struggle. She flailed with what weren’t arms, called with what wasn’t a voice. In Her Words. “ ”

  Their shape scalded her mouth and tongue, but this pain was real and good. It burned out the fume and brought light.

  Tananen is in danger. Defend Me!

  It felt like a mother’s cry.

  No, she was crying. Great wracking sobs blinded and choked her, even as arms held her, eased her to sit, even as hands dried her face and warmed her fingers with their own.

  “Drink this, Daughter. Slowly.” Kind, Affarealyon’s voice. Shaken, that too, and Kait blinked her eyes clear. Opened her mouth and swallowed gingerly.

  “I’m here,” Leksand said and she realized his arm was about her shoulders, his hand holding hers. The box lay abandoned on the floor.

  Alden’s hold daughter knelt before her, cup in hand. “Forgive me. I presumed to know what none of us can. To know all the forms The Lady chooses. All the ways in which She acts. Today, from you both, I’ve learned the depths of my ignorance and am grateful, Kaitealyon, Leksand, truly, for that.”

  Kait twitched and Leksand freed her hands. She took the cup and swallowed again. Not wine but water, cold and real. When certain she could speak again—that she dared—she looked up at her son. “You serve The Lady. We all do.” He’d saved her from the despairing depths the Fell had planted inside her and she no longer questioned why he was here.

  Or what she must do. Kait sat up straight, offering a hand to Affarealyon, the other to her son.

  “The Lady’s enemy is called the Fell.”

  * * *

  They left Alden Hold chased by heavy fat snowflakes, the sort that melted before touching the ground but found their way under scarf and hood. Spots of cold damp misery they were, the turn of autumn’s chief mischief; more familiar to him now than riding this road.

  Home, once.

  To another Maleonarial.

  Not that he didn’t recognize the low hedges to either side of the road, clipped as much by roaming sheep as groundskeepers, and the glisten of Helly Pelly Creek to the east as it slipped past on its way to the marsh. Free of made-fish; perhaps, the school’s grates weren’t foolproof. The road he knew too, its surface of black fitted slate impressive to those who didn’t have to deal with sleet or freezing rain. Or walk barefoot in summer. The roll of sedge-covered hills conjured memories of their fulsome carpet of yellow in spring, tiny blooms the joy of bees and butterflies, made or otherwise, and the way leaves gone crimson swept over the slopes like strokes of flame in autumn.

  Brown now, and done. Even Alden’s gossamers tucked themselves below ground once the cold came in earnest, though there were always those ready to pop up to surprise passersby.

  Except between the hedges, on the road of slate—

  —usually. There were, with gossamers, no guarantees.

  Most familiar of all, the heady lure of those with Her Gift, for nowhere else in Tananen were so many in one place. It mattered not if some were mad and others inept, most selfish and precious few kind; only what The Hag had slipped into each of them in their dreams, without consent or recourse. Magic.

  Harn sighed. “Feels good, doesn’t it, sir. To be nearing home.”

  What could he say to that? Maleonarial settled for a grunt. Though it gave him a question for Kait Alder. Did those of the Daughter’s Portion take comfort in living together for the same reason mage scribes, no matter how wealthy and successful, found their way back to the school before the end?

  Even he wasn’t immune, drawn like a hapless fish upstream—

  “Look! The Rabbits, sir,” Harn exclaimed with relief. “Praise The Goddess, we’re almost there.”

  Ancient pedestals tilted from the hedges, one to either side, tall as a man on horseback, which Maleonarial was not, having elected to ride with Harn and drive the team pulling the second wagon. Atop the leftmost perched an eroded stone statue that might resemble a rabbit with its nose to the ground and tail up. Or a gourd. Its partner on the right could be taken for a rabbit standing on hind legs, ears down its back, or an owl. They were older than hedges or road, and were rumored to date from the very first mage school. They’d escaped whatever destroyed the ones since.

  Owl, gourd, or shapeless lumps of rock, students had always called them rabbits, so The Rabbits they were, with eyes, or dimples where eyes should be, aimed as if watching uphill.

  The important thing about The Rabbits was they marked the boundary past which students were forbidden to do magic. Unless you were coming from Alden, as they were, meaning The Rabbits marked the boundary past which magic was encouraged and taught. Not hard to know what Harn was thinking.

  “Almost,” Maleonarial cautioned, “isn’t close enough, Harn. You’ll wait until in the care of a master. Harn!” When the student didn’t answer at once.

  “But mightn’t I—”

  “No. You’ve waited this long,” the mage added more kindly. “You’ll last.”

  Harn slumped in the seat, useless wrist cradled in his other arm, his solitary bell caught in a ringlet. “If you say so, sir.”

  They followed Tiler’s fancy carriage, driven by Domozuk, which followed Saeleonarial, that wagon driven by Rid. He’d have preferred to keep Harn as far from the urns as possible, but there was no other order that wouldn’t raise more questions than they wanted to answer.

  Maleonarial gave his head a small shake, listened to the restless bells. A good bet those waiting ahead would take one look at him and forget the wagon he’d brought. As for the rest? Questions remained.

  “When we get to the school, Harn, the masters will ask you about Riverhill and what happened to Saeleonarial.”

  “Me, sir?”

  How best to caution without alarm? “They’ll ask us all, and I want you to do as we will. Answer honestly, with what you yourself witnessed. The damesen’s cargo—whatever you might have heard on the barge—is none of our business. Speak of it to no one. She will deal with it when ready. Is that clear?”

  Sweat beaded Harn’s forehead, sticking down his usually tousled hair. His eyes were dull and desperate, but he nodded dutifully. “Yes, Master Maleonarial.”

  “Good lad.”

  As to how they’d deal with her cargo? He stared out at the road, seeing the urns with their glittering mechanical tops. Kait and her son had come last from their meeting with Affarealyon. He’d hoped the daughters would confer, but seeing their wan faces, how tightly Kait held Leksand’s arm? If they had, the result hadn’t been good.

  A relief to learn Master Pageonarial remained at the school. Of them all, the historian might have the answer.

  If his failing mind remembered where he’d left it.

  “One problem at a time, Harn,” Maleonarial declared.

  A mumbled, “Yes, sir.”

  * * *

  Insom’s caravan, so grand and bold leaving Tiler’s Hold, guards clattering alongside, halted to let sheep cross the road. Pylor and the others took the moment to open the carriage windows for a glimpse of the famed mage school.

  She blinked, wondering if they’d taken a wrong road. Enclosed by low, bare hills dotted with sheep, the few connected structures, none over three storeys tall, seemed at best to comprise a tidy little village. At its center, like any village, was a pond set amid a grassy commons, splitting the road around it. The buildings themselves were gray stone, as were the plentiful chimneys, while their gabled roofs were tiled in red. Those not covered in moss.

  Such an ordinary place, home to Tananen’s greatest—and most expensive—magic users, where legends were made and debts collected?

  A low gated stone fence, also moss coated, surrounded the school, presumably to keep sheep from the vegetables for it had
no conceivable value in defense or status.

  To be fair, the red-tiled rooftops with their hint of snow frosting made a pretty sight, and the abundance of windowed dormers thrust to their edge promised bright airy rooms. The doors were inset and of carved wood, framed by mature plantings. Sturdy. Comfortable.

  Row houses, the first line anyway. Residences for the students or masters? Past those rose something taller, at an angle, but she couldn’t make out much more. Pylor slipped over to Tercle’s side to see. So encouraged, Kait and Leksand, hitherto silent, switched places. The first building here, though again of stone and tile, appeared to be a barn, or livery. There was a larger building past it—

  Something flew in the open window and brushed by her hair. Pylor threw up her hands to fend it off.

  It wasn’t the cursed gull. Tercle reached out a finger, and a tiny made-bird settled on it, sleek jewel-bright feathers catching the light. Its long bill opened, releasing bubbles that floated through the air. As they watched in fascination, a young voice began to speak. “Welcome to the school. Be aware students may be creating at any time. Should anything appear that poses a hazard to belongings or person, take shelter at once. The school assumes no responsibility. Please proceed directly to the main hall.”

  The bill closed, wings moved in a blur, and the messenger zipped out of the carriage, stirring the bubbles so one drifted into Leksand’s nose. He went cross-eyed trying to see it, then it popped. “Oh.”

  “Welcome indeed,” said Kait with wondering smile. “Did you notice the sheep?”

  Pylor frowned and looked out again. The last of the flock was moving off the road.

  Did you call it a flock when the creatures in it walked on twigs, not legs, and had bodies like the fluff from a seed pod?

  The carriage rumbled through the open gate, students with crooks standing guard to either side against the perils of wandering fluff. As they passed, Pylor noticed a metal grate where a large culvert released the stream’s flow beneath the stone fence. A grate with back-pointed spines and a lock the size of her head.

  The wagon with its secret and perilous cargo came last. By arrangement or some signal from Maleonarial, a student waved it onto a side road by the barn. After watching it disappear behind the building, Pylor dropped her gaze to her fingers, unsurprised to find them clenched on her cane.

  Would it be safe?

  Would any of them?

  When she looked up, Kait was regarding her. By the lip between her teeth, the daughter had the same doubts.

  Pylor gave a little shrug. They were committed to Maleonarial’s plan, that said, such as it was. Stay the course, hide the urns, hope for answers before the Fell made their move. Pretend they hadn’t brought evil here, at evil’s behest.

  Kait nodded and looked outside.

  The wagon with Saeleonarial went ahead, white made-horses prancing, and their carriage trailed it through the school commons. Add the students in their brown robes, scurrying about like disturbed ants, and the occasional master in blue—those not moving quickly at all—and Pylor found herself charmed.

  A reaction she distrusted. It was her nature to appreciate scholarship for its own sake. Nothing so innocent happened here.

  The row houses lined one side of the road, the long oval pond to the other, and Pylor frowned, noticing the pond was bordered by massive stones and another grate guarded its outflow. Why?

  In the middle of the pond was a normal-looking island with a straggly tree and some shrubs. A rowboat laid pulled on its shore and there were what she took for ducks sleeping nearby. There were also pillars sticking up from the water which didn’t look normal at all, having thick chains depending from them as if they secured something unseen below. As they passed, she saw a brown-robed student sitting cross-legged on a floating platform, his attention on a board across his lap. A pen glinted in his hand.

  Pylor looked away. She wasn’t ready to watch magic practiced. Not like that.

  Across the pond were larger buildings, a set of three with a shared roof, but she’d no time to inspect them more closely, for the carriage drove beneath a roof of its own, to stop before what weren’t doors.

  A student opened the carriage door and dropped the stairs. Pylor rose, cane in hand, and allowed herself to be impressed as she stepped down.

  The mage who’d written this had created a made-swan two storeys-high whose brilliant white wings cloaked entrances on either side of its torturously up-stretched body. The head was magnificent, with liquid black eyes and a noble beak, dipping on its long neck to regard her. Perhaps part of its role was to scrutinize visitors.

  Case under one arm, Tercle hurried ahead. “This is the Damesen Pylor Ternfeather of Tiler’s—”

  “Welcome.” A head popped out between flight feathers like a cygnet’s, only this was a mage, his silvered hair sparkling with bells. He smiled toothlessly at Pylor and Tercle, then sneezed and disappeared. “Come out of the chill. Come come.”

  With that repetition, the wings folded up and away in invitation.

  Pylor understood Tercle’s frown. No guards, no defenses. No one checking she was who her apprentice claimed nor questions why she’d come. Did the school rely on the value of those it taught for protection? If so, as well unlock the coffers of Tiler’s Hold and rely on the gold to object to theft.

  Unless the masters relied on The Deathless Goddess. Everyone knew She tolerated no harm to those who used Her magic.

  Pylor walked inside, feeling a breeze from behind as the made-swan lowered her wings, and wondered if what everyone knew could be wrong.

  * * *

  Wendealyon had threatened the drastic measure. Affarealyon had taken it. Every gate, every door and window, was shut and secured behind them. Nothing and no one of Tiler’s Hold or the mage school would be allowed to pass in or out until the daughter from Woodshaven assured Alden’s the threat of the Fell was over. If that assurance didn’t arrive soon?

  Kait drew her cloak tighter, hardly able to believe Affarealyon’s shocking ultimatum, that Alden could and would destroy the school and the Fell with it. Such pronouncements were The Lady’s to make, not those who served. Weren’t they?

  If not, how many times had the mage school come to grief in generations past not by accident or greedy hold lord, but because an Alden hold daughter lost trust?

  What sort of hold daughter could ignore the pull of Her Gift many times over, as she felt here, in order to destroy it? Or was Her Gift concentrated here, in one place, so a hold daughter could?

  Maleonarial. Did he know? He’d been scribemaster; she supposed he must.

  Timber and water rights. Whose turn to bake for the innkeeper. Missing socks and snow-draped mountains. Had that ever been her life?

  Leksand sat by her side, silent and still since leaving Alden. He’d feel the draw of those in the school too, yet hadn’t remarked on it. He missed Ferden, but this was a different quiet. He mulled over what she’d told him and Affarealyon, what they’d decided. Who, as she did, should know. A burden on still-growing shoulders, but he was a thinker, her son; much as she’d prefer to protect him, ignorance wouldn’t.

  Besides, who was she to argue with the woman of the woods? Leksand had received Her Gift. Tananen is in danger. Defend me! Her throat still burned, but surely there was comfort to be had. If The Lady spent her son to bring Kait here, it must mean the Fell could be defeated and they were part of how.

  Unless, as the damesen feared, they were doing evil’s bidding, The Lady helpless. In which case, Kait thought grimly, let Affarealyon do her worst.

  In one way, she had. The hold daughter’s parting words disturbed her and contributed, she knew, to Leksand’s quiet. “You don’t know what they do up there. You think they teach magic. What they really do is to keep desperate lads from wasting their lives. Stop them filling the world with useless things, dangerous things. That’s the purpos
e of the school.”

  A tactful knock. Domozuk, suggesting they not tarry.

  Kait leaned over to plant a solid smack of a kiss on Leksand’s cheek, smiling at his feigned grimace. “Kind a’ye t’let y’mom h’r mush’n,” she teased, heart-heavy.

  “Always.” He cupped her face in his hands, brown eyes searching as if to memorize it. He pressed his lips to her forehead, staying close to murmur, “You’ll always be m’Mom.”

  Then there was nothing for it but to step outside.

  Domozuk waited by the front wheel. Worn to the bone, he looked, as well as troubled, and Kait shook her head in denial when he would have climbed to retrieve their belongings. “Let younger legs do it.”

  “My pleasure, Dom.” Giving her his box to hold, Leksand clambered up with a will.

  “Good lad,” Domozuk said awkwardly.

  “Aie.” Kait found a smile.

  “Kait, I’ve—” He hesitated, looked around as if to see they were alone, then went on in a rush. “I need you to take care of my master. His funeral.” Grief deepened the lines of his face.

  “Won’t you be there?” She read the answer in his eyes. “You aren’t welcome. Dom, that’s not right.”

  “I’ve other duties,” with an accepting shrug. “Besides, they’ll listen to a daughter. More than they’ll mind Maleonarial, matters as they are.”

  Kait doubted her sway over master mages was as profound as the man believed, especially newly arrived and dusty from the road, but nodded. “I’ll do m’best. What do you want me to do? Say?”

  “If you could make sure they don’t rush—that they give the scribemaster his due respect, I’d be grateful.”

  Kait nodded. She glanced at the giant white feathers draped over the doors, daunted by what might lie beyond. “How do we—are we to pluck them?” she asked dubiously.

  Domozuk’s expression eased. “Daisy’ll let you in. She’s more pet than—” His eyes widened at something he saw behind her. “Usually.”