“You can’t be serious,” Tercle said a moment later, sitting up in bed. “Bad enough you’ve kept the damn lamp burning.”
Because shadows were the enemy, the dark its home, and Pylor contained a shudder, saying bravely, “Once I’m settled, blow it out.” The pillow on the chair, blankets to wrap around herself; Kait’s quilt and cheeks ample proof the window had to be opened in order to stand watch. “It’s stuffy in here.” She threw the latch and pushed.
“It’s bloody cold out there. Py!” A wail.
She tossed one of the blankets to her friend. “Go to sleep.”
“Damn right I will,” Tercle muttered, blowing out the lamp. “Owls.”
Shadows pressed close. Outside was black without so much as a star and the air blowing over her was every bit as bitter as Tercle claimed, stealing moisture from her nose and mouth. Pylor was accustomed to waiting long hours for an experiment to finish; took pleasure in patience and persistence, rewarded by result.
Now, if anything happened, if anything finished, if the result she awaited was the Fell showing themselves free, what did Kait think she could do? Cry out? Do as her pathetic cousin and light every lamp? Pylor’s bones itched and her eyes burned, until it took every bit of will she had left to sit there, afraid to so much as blink.
“Move over.” Tercle’s shoulder bumped into Pylor’s as she dragged the other chair close and sat. Her friend shifted with an annoyed grunt, pulling a blanket over the top of her head. “Bloody owls.”
Pylor stared out into the night with eyes no longer dry nor burning. Blinked, surprised by a trickle of icy moisture down her cheeks.
Amazed how warm she felt.
* * *
The servant’s name was Hardly Bakerson, he worked at the school to put aside a smidge extra and when not working here he helped his grandparents with their shop in Alden which would be his eventually, and wherever he was taking Kait made him less and less comfortable by the stair step.
“It’s the upper floor masters,” Hardly blurted when they reached the top landing. “They don’t—I was told they can’t ask for things. Or visitors.”
“One’s asked for me,” Kait concluded. She’d presumed it was Maleonarial till now. She eyed the door. Unlike the others she’d encountered, this was of sintered metal. A once-red sash came through a small hole in the door frame, tied with a bow to a large rusty bell hanging from a hook; an arrangement presumably to let someone on the other side pull the sash and sound what, an alarm? “Should I worry?” she asked, judging the baker from Alden kind and truthful.
Hardly frowned at the door with her. “I’ve nought been past here, Kait. Senior students bring up trays from the kitchen. Eaples does the rooms with the masters out. He never says a word about them, mind, but I met him once, coming down these stairs.” Hardly licked his lips and swallowed. “There was no color to his face and his hands—his hands shook so hard, I had to help carry his buckets.”
Which, no offense to Eaples or Hardly, might simply mean a messier room than usual. In her experience the infirm struggled to hit the pot with their piss, let alone anything else, and cleaning the result part of their care. Babes were no different.
Were master mages? Kait stiffened her shoulders. She was about to learn who the school kept hidden from the rest and why, though from Affarealyon’s warning, magic would be part of it. Still, however dire the reasons, for Leksand’s sake, she had to know. Even if it left her with nightmares.
“Thank you, Hardly. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“It’s the fourth door to the right. You’ll need this,” passing her the lamp he’d carried. “I’m not to go past here.” He lowered his voice. “I will, if you like.”
At possible cost of his position, upon which Kait suspected his grandparents relied too. “No need. I walk in the steps of The Lady,” she reminded him. “Thank you again.”
He wasn’t happy, but couldn’t very well argue. “Good night, then.”
Kait waited, holding the lamp high, until he’d descended past the next landing to where caged moths lit the stairwell. “G’night?” she echoed, almost amused. It seemed there were as many awake now, as in the day.
She wrapped her fingers around the door handle and pulled, stepping through promptly to let it close behind her, in case a dottering wanderer stood ready to escape and likely tumble down the stairs.
Kait found herself isolated in the rectangle of yellow light cast by her lamp. She tapped a toe, confirming the floor was metal. Unattractive and hard underfoot. Did those confined here tend to set fires? Raising the lamp, she saw the corridor continued into the dark. She’d tread softly; most here should be asleep.
She paused at the first door. Bolted, so perhaps she’d been right to imagine the stairs a hazard to whomever lived in these rooms. Metal, with a name neatly chalked on it: Esteonarial.
Was one Rogeonarial? She’d believed Leksand’s father dead years ago, but it wasn’t as if the mage school sent out notices. He hadn’t returned, that was all. Eaples should know the names of those here.
To what gain? Might as well ask an acorn attach itself back on the oak, and that after the wood was made into furniture. Kait resumed walking, counting doors as she went; she no longer read the names.
As she passed the second door, something brushed her leg. She couldn’t help but jump, though she managed not to make a sound. She turned to see what it was, half-prepared for a rat.
It was not. Perhaps its creator intended a cat, but this was no fluffy pet. Closer in size to a dog, its back covered in plates like armor, the made-cat’s enlarged eyes were white discs in the lamplight. Sharp, long fangs dripped with venom that steamed as drops hit the floor.
Explained the alarm bell, didn’t it?
It blocked her way to the stairs. Kait took a step back. Another. The creature followed, slow, sinuous, and ready to pounce. It had only to decide in which fleshy portion to sink its fangs.
She’d open the next door and wake its occupant before that moment arrived.
Something else entered the light. Smaller, without eyes or fangs, but needles stuck from it like a pincushion. More of them, piling into a pursuing wave, and what was that sound from over her head?
Time to be elsewhere. Kait whirled to run, only to freeze in place. In the light stood more of the made-cats, with more pincushions behind, and hanging down, glistening mouths level with her face, things that shouldn’t exist—couldn’t—
A door flew open down the hall, warm bright light streaming forth. A white-haired head peered out. “Don’t just stand there. We’re waiting.”
As if she wasn’t surrounded by salivating venomous made-monsters. Which she obviously was, Kait thought, becoming rather cross, but the speaker’s head disappeared, his door left open with its promise of safe haven and two choices.
Either she could walk through what crawled and slunk and prowled, ready to tear her to bits. Or he’d made them and was impatient to see her in bits.
Well, the night wasn’t getting any longer. With an irritated snort, Kait raised her lamp and eyes, and strode toward the door as if not surrounded at all, resolutely ignoring the snarls and growls from the shadows. Harder not to react when something squealed and crunched underfoot, and what jumped into her hair?
Fumbling to pull whatever it was out with one hand, Kait half-stumbled into the room, recovering her footing as the door closed. She found herself blinking at Maleonarial.
Who’d been swallowed, except for his head, hair, and bells, by what looked like a very comfortable leather chair. The mage gave her a wry smile. “Kaitealyon.”
“Free’m at once!” Kait demanded fiercely, whirling in search of the “you” in question.
The subject of her ire stood no taller than she, weighed half as much, and wore a fluffy red robe. And slippers. Old—she’d no idea how old, but a wealth of bells, almost as many as Maleo
narial’s, clung to his white hair and she didn’t care for his faint little smile that judged her in turn.
Kait half-raised the lamp in mock threat. “Free—”
Something stabbed her scalp.
“G’me a moment.” Putting the lamp on the floor, she felt until a pricked finger located the culprit. Wincing, Kait ripped the pincushion-thing from her head, along with some hair. She searched for a place to toss it and her eyes found the old master. She gave her own humorless smile. “Free Maleonarial,” she ordered, waving the thing by her hair.
He didn’t appear concerned. “Greetings, Daughter. Mal claims you can detect those possessed by an Eater.”
The truth of that name shivered down her spine. Not the Fell. Eaters—and what they consumed was magic. She’d seen it. “How do you know of them?”
“Pageonarial’s the historian I told you about. Unfortunately, he suspects I’ve one in me.” Maleonarial grimaced. “It’s getting warm in here, Page.”
“You’re being digested,” the old master said offhandedly, his attention on Kait. “Well? Does he?”
Though tempted, she lowered the writhing pincushion. “I swear by The Lady that Maleonarial is himself. Alone in his body. Unpossessed. Now set him free.”
Pageonarial’s relieved sigh improved Kait’s opinion. “Chair,” he announced firmly, “I fear you’ll have to wait for supper. Release him.”
Large brown eyes blinked in reproach. A giant made-fly that belonged in the corridor with the other monsters zipped from its hiding place behind the chair to be snapped up by the desk.
Was any furniture to be trusted?
“Now,” insisted the master.
The leather receded from the mage. The instant he could wriggle free, Maleonarial did so with a will. Standing, he ran his hands over his clothes, lifting away fingers covered in clear goo. “Page?”
“Oh.” With that little smile, the other settled himself on the chair that had spat out Maleonarial. “Jump in the tub. We’ll wait.”
There was, indeed, a bubble-filled tub, the most luxurious Kait had ever seen, in view through the door to a bedroom. Which made no difference, to her mind, given the hour and their fear. “We’ve nought time for bathing.”
“Quite right.” Pageonarial whistled through a gap between what could be his only teeth. Bubbles rose in a sparkling cloud, then flew to engulf Maleonarial. For an instant, he was obscured from view, other than waving arms as he tried to keep bubbles from his face.
Did the bubbles giggle?
As quickly as they’d come, the bubbles zoomed back to the tub, leaving Maleonarial dry and freshly cleaned from hair to gleaming boots. Recalling the drudgery of a laundry day back home, particularly in spring when mud found its way everywhere, Kait almost asked how much the intention would cost.
But wasn’t it before her, in Pageonarial’s shrunken face and frail body?
“Y’pardon.” Kait went to the door, tossed the pincushion into the corridor to join its kind, closed the door firmly again, then turned. “Do you know how to stop them?”
“I might have information of use. Please. Sit.”
Not on anything with eyes and appetite, she wouldn’t. Kait took the quilt from her shoulders, overwarm anyway, and spread it on the carpet in front of Pageonarial. Seeing her sit on it, Maleonarial did the same. “How do we stop the Eaters?” she asked, barely containing her impatience.
That’s what she felt, she assured herself, so tired her legs wanted to twitch, yet so awake it was as though she knew better than to relax. It wasn’t the feeling they were already too late.
“How do we stop them other than cutting off heads,” Maleonarial qualified. The desk, or what was in it, gave an enthused buzz. Seeing Kait’s shocked look, he shrugged. “Apparently how one deals with the possessed.”
They were not cutting off Insom’s head, she vowed then and there. Poor Pylor.
“While we waited for you, Kait, I told Pageonarial what’s happened. What we know—what we fear,” the mage went on. He bowed his head to her. “Because you can hear and see the Eaters, you came from Tiler’s to warn the rest of Tananen of this dire threat and seek the truth. Because of you, Kaitealyon, we three have a chance to defeat the Eaters who’ve come to our school to destroy the heart of magic.”
A fine and loquacious storyteller he was, of a sudden, as good as any at the inn; Kait narrowed her eyes at Maleonarial. Why?
“‘A chance,’” echoed the old master, eyes gleaming. “I’ve waited these months. Spent these years.” His lips worked. “Hidden myself and what I know.”
“Your wait is over, my friend.” Theirs wasn’t, and Kait resisted the urge to poke the mage’s ankle with her toe. “By the will of The Deathless Goddess, we’ve come together and it will be in time.”
“Yes!” Pageonarial quivered like reeds in the wind. “It will! It will! I’ve been afraid—once I knew an Eater had come ashore, I knew they’d be coming here. Might already be here—how could I be sure? How?” His voice faltered.
“You made the courageous choice, Page,” Maleonarial praised. “You told no one. Pretended to lose your wits so the masters would confine you here, where you could work in secret. Sacrificed—” He stopped, shaking his head as though overcome with emotion.
Ah. The winding tale was for her benefit, as well as the old master’s. Maleonarial wanted her to understand why they were here, why this was their only ally.
Who couldn’t be rushed, for he was truly frail. How young would he be otherwise? A gift for scholarship, nurtured and given focus, and the historian could be her age. Should be. Kait bowed her head in respect. “The Lady’s Blessing on you—”
“I couldn’t trust anyone, you see.” As if he hadn’t heard. “Then Sael—” A stricken look to Maleonarial. “I tried to warn him not to go to Tiler’s Hold.” Tears fell. “I’d hidden myself too well. He couldn’t believe me. I couldn’t explain.”
Pageonarial jerked back, hands held as if to fend off an attacker. The eyes on the chair opened wide and it snarled. “And now the Eaters have come—they’re here!”
“Here, aie, but not free.” Wary of the chair, Kait rose on her knees to take the distraught historian’s hands in hers. Chafed them gently, for his fingers were like ice. “The Eaters are imprisoned—”
Pageonarial pulled back his hands. “How? Where?” Fretful. Querulous. Kait looked to Maleonarial, trusting he’d reassure the poor man.
“In sealed urns, in a wagon tucked behind the kitchen,” Maleonarial said, as if making a careful report. “There are fourteen, Page; one for each master in residence, labeled by name and the artwork of the seal.”
Not how she’d have given the news.
“Fourteen, you say.” Kait was astonished to see Pageonarial’s agitation vanish, his demeanor grow confident. “A tally absent our late scribemaster, but including those confined to the upper floor. Ah!”
“What are you thinking?”
That they should thank The Lady the Eaters hadn’t prepared an urn for Maleonarial too.
“An attack, in force.” Crisply. Pageonarial steepled his gnarled fingers. “The number of urns suggests the Insom Eater believed Saeleonarial wouldn’t return before these urns arrived and, like the rest of Tananen, is unaware some of our number are not, shall we say, functional. Indeed, Est and Arco are within an intention—at most two—of their end. Imperfect information. No master has been possessed,” with satisfaction. “We are safe from spies.”
“We can’t be sure,” Kait cautioned. “Insom warned Pylor she was being watched. He—the Eater sent a made-gull to communicate with her. It might have come with us.”
Maleonarial shook his head, bells chiming softly. “Most of what takes place at the school is under a roof. A made-gull would be remarked; the active masters keep watch over whatever’s not real.”
She’d have found that
more comfort if the masters then dealt with it. A good start would be clearing up the corridor. Little wonder Eaples occasionally looked green.
“The first question to answer is why aim this attack at us? We must consult—” The historian rattled off what sounded like a string of titles, fingers parting to wiggle in the air.
Books raced down the walls to stack themselves beside the chair, by Kait’s feet, which she tucked hurriedly aside, and in front of Maleonarial, individual tomes shoving and pushing to establish their order.
“With respect, I disagree.” She put a quelling hand on the nearest pile, feeling the made-books grow still. “The question that matters, the only one, is how we destroy them.” Defend me! “And quickly. Before the Eaters destroy Tananen.”
Pageonarial’s gaze locked with hers. “How do we prevent that destruction, Daughter, without first knowing how the Eaters could accomplish it?” Before she could respond, he continued grimly, “I doubt you’ve come with assurance of divine protection. Balfour!” A book not under her hand scampered up the chair to fling itself, open to a page, on his knee. He quoted without looking away from her: “‘Lest later generations forget this truth, it shall be recorded and taught by every hold daughter. Tiler’s Hold was built not to protect the people of Tananen, but its Goddess.’”
Defend me! Kait let out a slow, less than steady, breath. “Aie, it’s been forgotten.” Along with how much else? Which didn’t matter now. “The Lady no longer comes to us in Tiler’s. She’s commanded we defend her.” She firmed her voice. “And we will.”
“Will you become Her Designate, in order to—what is the euphemism you daughters like to use?—ah, clean house?” Eyes on both chairs shot open, then narrowed with menace, for this was no idle question, but confrontation.
Kait rose to her feet, Maleonarial echoing the movement to stand by her shoulder, and which master was the greater threat? Neither, she decided, for both were afraid. “You listen to me, for I’ll say this but once. The Eaters are the foe, not The Lady, not me. They don’t belong in Tananen. As for what they plan? The longer these stay, chances are we’ll be see’n it for ourselves.”
The Gossamer Mage Page 27