The Gossamer Mage

by Julie E. Czerneda

  “What’s happening?” he pleaded. “Where are the roses?” He stared over her head. “Is that—is that the damesen?”

  “It is,” she told him. “And more will die unless we get everyone outside, in the light, now. Can you do that, Harn?”

  His eyes were round with shock, but he answered promptly, “Yes, Daughter. I’ll tell Daisy—”

  How didn’t matter. If they could keep the Eaters in the stones, contained there—

  “No one must do magic,” Kait commanded. “Make sure. Go!” She gave Harn an encouraging push, using it to set herself in motion.

  “Stay outside!” she shouted at Tercle and those attending to her as she rushed past. The still-open door to the kitchen saved time; dodging the cook’s bulk didn’t. “Get outside!”

  Nelisti tried to hand her something. “Harrr—”

  Leksand’s box. Kait dodged that too. “Take it to him.”

  She’d no need to listen for the Eaters.

  Inside, she could see them.

  Smoke-like fingers stroked black through the hanging cages on either side as Kait ran past the counter to the larder to the stairs, extinguishing the firemoths within, ash dribbling to the floor.

  Making it dark. They preferred the dark.

  Fourteen. Would the Eaters stay together or disperse throughout the school? Would they seek out the masters or gorge on made-things first? Gorge, Kait decided, though the conviction came with its own horror.

  The daughter took the stairs two at a time, relieved to find no one else inside. Hers was the fifth door, left side. With the light reduced to what came through a window at the other end of the hallway, she used touch to find it, fingertips running over the mortar and stone and whatever else paced with her.

  There. Kait threw herself inside, bars of sunlight streaming through the window like Her Blessing. The bright-eyed made-bird waited on the sill, motionless and perfect, down to the little lump of shit growing beneath it.

  Choking back what was more sob than laugh, Kait picked up the bird, letting it grip her finger with its tiny claws. She’d thought through her message on the stairs, what information Wendealyon needed, what not, and spoke, urgently and without pause. “The Fell are the Eaters, an ancient menace from The Brutes. One has possessed Insom, using him to send its kind to attack the mage school. The damesen is dead. We believe the Eaters have come for the school’s gossamers. If they succeed, I fear The Lady is next. We must stop them here. We will. Her Blessing on us all.” She stopped.

  Its beak opened. Ursealyon’s voice proclaimed, “I will deliver.”

  She hoped so, in case they failed.

  Kait pushed open the window and tossed the bird into the air, holding her breath until it became a dot in the sky.

  Now, to set a trap.

  * * *

  The expiry of Slog would have raised cheers from staff who’d risked their lives to place markers, only to fish out those who hadn’t cared, but for the dead.

  The dead, and the curious rain of ash down the stones of the building as cluster after cluster of hapless made-toads came to what Hardly Bakerson avowed a premature end, it not being cold enough.

  Maleonarial’s heart tightened in his chest. The made-toads turned to ash because the Eater from Dolren had finished one meal and now worked its otherwise invisible way up the wall for more. Where was Kait?

  As if in answer, Daisy rose over the roof like a second sun, great white wings dazzling, to shriek a warning loud enough to shatter window glass. “Danger! Get outside. Stay in the light! Danger! Get outside! Do no magic! Do no magic!” The made-swan wheeled above, heading for the other building, continuing to sound the alarm.

  “That’s Harn’s voice,” Leksand said, staring up.

  “Your mother’s warning. The rest of the Eaters must be free.” With Dolren’s, fifteen of the things and they’d witnessed what one could do.

  Leksand looked at him, face pale but determined. “Insom keeps lamps burning day and night. Momma said he did it to resist.”

  “They may not like it, but light’s not stopped them,” Maleonarial said grimly. Kait’s warning had been accurate. She understood the first impulse of frightened mages, student or master, would be to create. Horses to flee. Mauls to defend. Goddess knew, some of the fools would make themselves living chairs to watch the end of the world in comfort.

  And draw the Eaters straight to them.

  “No magic outside,” he told Leksand. “Kait wants the Eaters in the buildings as long as possible.”

  “Away from the masters.”

  Inside—

  Maleonarial clapped the boy on a shoulder. “Maybe it’s more than that.” He jumped on a nearby bench. Before he could call for their attention, every head swiveled, every eye locked on him. The damned bells finally had their use.

  Domozuk had a voice able to penetrate the corners of an audience hall. “Hark to the scribemaster,” he bellowed, and no one denied the naming.

  Good. He’d need that authority, their obedience, and more if they were to survive this day. “Gather everyone in the commons, quickly. Keep them outside and well away from any stone structure.” If he was right and the daughter thought the same? There’d soon be none. “Dom, take charge.”

  “With me and quickly! Stay to the road.” Dom, Rid beside him, marshaled the staff, sending someone to bring Tercle and those still by her side.

  Those on the upper floor—including Pageonarial—couldn’t flee on their own. Maleonarial didn’t waste breath to explain. He bolted for the dining hall. Kait’s son caught up with him at the door, wordlessly opening it.

  “The Eaters are inside,” the mage warned. “They wanted you here.”

  “I asked the woman of the woods to serve The Lady like my mother before me,” Leksand replied, eyes clear and bright and brave. “Unless you doubt she’d go in, Scribemaster?”

  Oh, he was quite sure Kait Alder would and had. “Come then.”

  The hall and tables should be well-lit for breakfast—exceptionally so, according to Dom, who’d said Saeleonarial had been at wit’s end trying to stop the latest class of students making firemoths.

  Cages hung or stood empty, glittering ash beneath. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Tables were set and there were pretty dried flowers, but Maleonarial felt his skin crawl. This was no longer a place for the living.

  “They know we’re here,” Leksand whispered as they walked across the open space.

  “I don’t think they care about us.” He didn’t add “yet.”

  A sober nod. Leksand wouldn’t falter. Despite the boy’s youth, he’d courage and uncommon good sense.

  For his age, he was a fool. He knew better than grow fond of a student. Knew what lay ahead for the would-be mage and still, with every step they took together across that haunted room, Maleonarial swore to himself Kait’s son would survive this.

  Swore Leksand would live free of Her cursed Gift.

  First, to live at all.

  * * *

  You did what work needed doing, without hunting up another to do it for you. Leksand grinned to himself, almost hearing his Momma’s voice, because everyone in Woodshaven knew who’d find what needed doing and get it done. Usually before anyone else was awake.

  Not that she and his great-uncle didn’t expect him to do his share. Nim would find out. But at home, working together was the way, many hands and backs the custom. Otherwise, how could you enjoy the feast and rest to follow?

  He hadn’t seen it here, not until this terrible morning. Maybe the mage school was its own kind of village. Maybe he could make a home here.

  If it survived. Leksand kept his eyes averted from the piles of ash, hurrying behind Maleonarial.

  “Here.” The scribemaster pressed his fingers in a pattern against what appeared a plain section of wood paneling. It slid aside, revealing a
coiled metal staircase. “Take one.”

  Lamps hung from a hook, ready for use. Leksand ran his thumb across the flint knurl to ignite it, glad of the light. He looked up to see Maleonarial’s face lit from below. It might have been carved from ancient marble, the utter black dread of what was above them held at bay by the flickering reflections from hundreds of bells, and his fear left him.

  If anyone could save them, would save them, it was this mage.

  Maleonarial made a peculiar noise, like a cough but not. When he raised his lamp to indicate the way up, his face was again mere flesh, jaw unshaven. A man worried but committed, who looked to him for help.

  He would not fail.

  They took the stairs at a quick pace, the mage leading. “This takes us to the upper floor,” Maleonarial explained in a low voice. “There are five masters locked in their rooms. We have to get them out before any Eater finds them.” A pause of two steps, then, “Don’t waste time arguing with them. We’ll carry them down if necessary. The stairs at the far end are wider.”

  Why were there locks? Leksand focused on the rest, cheered to know they were a rescue. “The masters are infirm?”

  “They’re dangerous.”

  Hence the locks. He swallowed what else he might have asked.

  The light from their lamps chased bars of shadows around and around. He lost count of the steps before they reached the metal door at the top.

  The scribemaster put his hand on the bolt. “Don’t look to the ceiling, Leksand. Ignore what you see on the floor. If a door is open, stay out. Nothing will attack you unless disturbed.”

  “Like honeybees,” he suggested.

  An eyebrow lifted. “Like Slog. Smaller,” as if that helped. “I’ll do the doors to the right, you the left. Are you ready?”

  Before Leksand could answer, Maleonarial drew aside the bolt and opened the door. He stepped through, so there was no choice but follow.

  Things moved everywhere, fangs glinted, wet with poison, and if not for the mage walking steadily through the throng of, yes, they were small, but still nightmares, a sensible person would have turned to run back out the door.

  Work needed doing, didn’t it?

  Leksand held his breath the first few steps, hardly able to believe the things edged out of his way, albeit grudgingly and at the last possible moment, with hissing and spit, but they moved, so he did.

  Overhead he could hear more things slither and fought the impulse to look up, shuddering when something hot and black dripped onto his leather jerkin. He stiffened but joined the mage at the first door.

  “I should have brought an axe,” Maleonarial said abruptly.

  “For the door?”

  “No.” With that disquieting word, the scribemaster slipped the bolt to one side and eased open the door. Before Leksand could see what was inside, he’d closed it again. “Goddess claimed.” An inscrutable look. “It means Grafeonarial wrote an intention more than he should and She took the last of his life.”

  “The Lady’s Bless—”

  “The—” Maleonarial’s voice broke. “This had nothing to do with paradise or blessing, boy,” he snarled. “Use Her Gift and you will age and you will die. Most certainly before anyone you called friend at home.”

  Other things snarled in concert, and the lamp in his hand trembled so the light did until Leksand firmed his grip. “Aie, sir. The next master. Sir.”

  “‘Aie, sir.’” The scribemaster shook his head, the tinkle of his bells now a dire, cold sound. “Take the left.” Maleonarial went to the next door on the right.

  A thing like a cat crouched, fangs dripping. Leksand stepped over it, promising to apologize to every real cat he met in future if it didn’t attack.

  The next two doors were open and he walked by without looking inside. Then, one closed and bolted. “Arcoeonarial,” he whispered, reading the name. “Let’s get you to safety, sir.”

  Leksand opened the door.

  * * *

  Through a window of delicate panes within a lattice of lead, Kait watched students and masters pour from the residences on the far side of the commons. Daisy flew low, causing hair to fly and cloaks—for those who’d grabbed them—to billow like wings themselves. Harn had done a superb job of evacuating the buildings, though credit to Maleonarial’s creation.

  Staff urged those newly outside away from the buildings and the central pond, collecting them like so many sheep in the small field near the entrance. Maleonarial’s doing too, Kait guessed. He’d heard what she’d said about Eaters and stone.

  Would know what to do.

  Her role remained the same. To keep watch. She supposed this made the empty dining hall the Daughter’s Portion, not that the mages would appreciate the whimsy.

  To watch and listen.

  There were no Eaters in view. No matter, they muttered. Above her. Everywhere in the school, for Kait had come to believe she heard those at a distance as well, as though they communicated with one another by shouting and she’d no choice but bear the cacophonous result.

  Never words. Emotions. The Eaters were . . . pleased. Enthralled. Excited near to madness and she dug the nails of her fingers deep into the palms, using the pain to keep herself, herself, and not be drawn into their dark, ravenous hunger. She’d been right. Freed at last, the Eaters thought of nothing but to gorge themselves. They were chasing every wisp and scrap of magic. Consuming it only to hunt for more.

  Not sated, not remotely close. If anything, what she heard and felt was a rising frenzy, as if the made-things of the school stoked the fires of their bottomless hunger.

  She watched Daisy land on the highest of the connected roofs, crushing a chimney as the now ungainly creature attempted to perch on broad webbed feet.

  Good. More bait to keep the Eaters where they were. Inside.

  Kait silenced the mutters. Stood, feeling soiled. Staggered, and swallowed vomit so she risked a precious moment to calm herself as best she could, thinking of the wind through the pines and the feel of a baby’s tiny hand around her finger.

  She pushed her arms through the slits in her cloak, gave herself a settling shake, then walked briskly to the doors. Now to keep the mages milling outside in alarmed confusion from doing what they mustn’t.

  Maleonarial would go for the historian. Save his friend, save them. And if Pageonarial had no better answer?

  They’d Alden’s.

  * * *

  A floor and doors designed to keep in what the masters created might hinder the Eaters. It couldn’t stop what moved between stones.

  Maleonarial chose to be annoyed. Invisible evil magic-eating fume? The least it could do, he told himself, refusing to look down the corridor toward Leksand, was be tangible. Provide a target.

  The Hag at least had the courtesy to inhabit a tower. According to legend, true, but those seemed real enough at the moment.

  The bolt was drawn open on Pageonarial’s door. If he’d bothered to check last night, most likely the bolt itself was magic and answered to the historian, who was too intelligent to be imprisoned by anyone but himself.

  He hurried inside, the urgent, “They’re here—” dying on his lips.

  “Yes, I heard Daisy.” Page sat on one of his leather chairs, surrounded by stacks of books and bubbles, the other chair and even the desk summoned to be part of what was a wall.

  “You know this,” Maleonarial gestured at the barricade of anxious things, “will only lure them. Come—”

  “They’re to keep you away.”

  Maleonarial took a step closer. Eyes of all manner of shapes and sizes narrowed in warning. The desk showed teeth like a bear’s and he stopped where he was. “Have you lost all sense—”

  “No, Mal.” Page lifted that commanding finger. “You must listen.”

  “Be quick, or I’ll write what can dispense with this and carry yo
u out.”

  The old master gave his wise little smile. “I’m sure you could. Listen first. From Ingleton’s annals. ‘A host is selected. A host must be learned and the Eater prepared.’ Do you see? Eaters must be shown—trained, if you will—a specific host. The lids you described to me, with each master’s most memorable accomplishment—I believe they were to remind the Eaters which master to possess. That’s why the Insom Eater wanted so badly to know about you, my potent friend. To prepare an Eater to possess you, if they could.” His sunken eyes gleamed. “I believe they can’t.”

  Scant comfort. “One arrived in Insom’s servant,” Maleonarial informed him. “Whether to be sure the damesen followed instructions, or to possess her, doesn’t matter. They killed her instead. Now,” with commendable patience, “will you come?” He took another step, met with a chorus of growls.

  He drew out a pen and vial. “Page—”

  “We don’t know how they think, if they think. We don’t know if there’s one, with appendages, or hundreds. I need time!”

  “We’re out of it.” Maleonarial knelt, setting down the vial, and brought forth a strip of parchment. Those, the pen in his hand, were Sael’s, taken from the scribemaster’s quarters, having followed his own advice to Harn. He’d be damned if he’d spill a second of his life using anything less.

  “Scribemaster!” Leksand burst through the open door, registering what he saw without a blink—or perhaps he didn’t see, for his voice was brittle and strained. “They’re all dead, sir. Someone’s—some thing cut off their heads.”

  Pageonarial’s smile gentled. He twirled that finger and three of his blades rose from inside his wall of books and bubbles, one taking position on his shoulder, the others hovering too close. “Dinus disputed Ban’s footnotes. ‘Harm to the host is not harm to the Eater.’ One should never take an anecdotal account for fact, but this suggests a preventative measure.”

  An axe to keep masters from being possessed? He should have remembered the one already here. “Page, we can get you out—”