by Beth Lyons
“Is that a multiple choice answer? I’m to pick one from your litany?”
I glared at him. “I am paying you to teach me.”
“Ah, indeed. Money. Maybe magic comes from money.”
“You seem to turn magic into money, if that’s what you mean.” I wasn’t being entirely fair. Underwood’s lessons were reasonably priced. I couldn’t ask for a better teacher. He was tolerant of my moods and laziness. He seemed to take it as a given that I didn’t practice.
“Well now, it is an interesting concept,” he replied. “Does magic come from money? What do the ancients say on the subject? In the reading I assigned— Oh, never mind, you didn’t read it, did you? Why read Agentine on Origins when you can – I don’t know, go to a nightclub?”
“I don’t go out clubbing. That’s not my scene.” He was baiting me; I knew it, but I couldn’t resist.
“A woman then? Something – someone is keeping you from your studies, Vox Swift.” His gaze tried to pierce through my constructed nonchalance.
I couldn’t very well tell him about my nights. I couldn’t tell him that I spent an hour of each evening trying to cast scry, a spell so far beyond my abilities as to be laughable. I couldn’t tell him that I was determined to scry Marilye Forlone.
The scry spell allows you to see where your target is. It will show you who she’s with and, to a small extent, you can see the surrounding area. That’s the theory anyway. I’d yet to have even a glimmer of success with the spell.
I had to know where she was, who she was with. Marilye, she’d ruined my life – well, perhaps that was a little strong. She’d ruined a few weeks of my life, certainly, but more importantly, she’d taken something from me. Finding her wouldn’t bring my innocence back, but finding her, hurting her like she’d hurt me, that would go a ways toward healing me, I felt certain of that.
And maybe she’d done me a favor. The day I met Marilye Forlone I’d been a trusting young thing. Easily fooled, a dupe. She saw that, used it, used me and escaped to continue with her plans. I’d been a prop, a tool, a spell component and—
“Hoy, Vox?” Underwood’s voice pierced my thoughts. “Where did you go? Come back to me.” He gently grabbed my chin and stared into my eyes. “Someone needs a night off. Someone needs a drink, a bowl of stew, and a tuck in.” He smiled. “I have just the thing. Come.”
I followed him behind the bar and up a narrow staircase. He unlocked first one door and then another, and then I was standing in cocoon of a room. A blue lamp burned in one corner, soft rugs overlapped on the floor. Tapestries hung from the walls. A puffy couch dominated one side of the room.
“Sit.” Underwood pointed to the couch and disappeared through a side door.
The cushions seemed to hug me, and I relaxed into their embrace. I couldn’t remember the last full night’s sleep I’d gotten and even though it wasn’t yet 7 o’clock, I fell asleep waiting for Underwood to return.
“Drink this.” Underwood crouched in front of me with a tumbler of amber liquid. “It’s brandy. Drink up. I’ve got stew heating up.”
Pushing on the cushions I tried to rise. “I have things to do. I can’t—”
“You can. You will.” He swirled the liquid in the glass. “I don’t give this vintage to just anyone, Vox. Only my best students.”
Reaching for the glass I said, “You said you didn’t have any other students right now.”
“It’s not like brandy goes bad, my dear. And don’t contradict your host; it’s rude.” He watched me sip the brandy. “Bottoms up. This first dose is not for sipping.” With that he left the room again.
“’The first dose’,” I muttered, but I did as instructed and felt the liquor burn down my throat and into my belly. Maybe a night off from scrying is just what you need, I told myself. The meditation, the hour of chanting, the waiting… My nerves had worn thin from the effort; I could see that now.
Underwood returned with a steaming bowl cupped in his hands. I set the empty glass on the floor and accepted the bowl. “This is too kind of you, really. But thank you.”
My teacher joined me on the couch, sitting sideways with his legs pulled up. “The origins of magic. Interesting topic and more than one mage has gone crazy trying to answer the question you so blithely ask, Vox.”
“I didn’t—”
He held up a hand to stop me. “It is a worthy question. All questions are worth the asking. And sometimes the better question – the question that must be answered ere the others can be tackled – the better question is ‘Why do you ask?’” He gave me a slight smile. “Why do you ask, student of mine?”
I opened my mouth to lie and stopped. His eyes hadn’t left my face. Is there a counterspell to detect thoughts? If so, I had a feeling I needed it. My suspicion was confirmed a moment later when Underwood’s mouth twitched slightly.
“Isn’t it rude,” I said, “for a host to cast spells on his guest?”
“Did you detect magic? I didn’t sense a thing. Well done!”
His eyes danced with delight, and I had the urge to lie again. Instead I ate a bite of stew. “Nah,” I said. “Lucky guess.” I looked at the carpet for a long moment. “That’s the thing, Helio – am I ever going to be any good at this? I try and—”
He broke in. “You do need to practice. Practice every day. Pick a spell that’s perhaps a bit beyond your—”
“Like scry?” It felt good to say it aloud. I set the bowl down. I’d lost my appetite, and my need for secrecy.
“Heavens no. Be practical, Vox. Scrying is—” He stopped. “Oh. Why would you – I mean to say, that is ambitious. I was thinking more unseen servant or animal messenger.” He evidently saw something in my eyes because he stopped, nodded, and said, “Scrying. What do you want to know?”
###
I sat in front of the mirror, still fuming at Even. How dare she be right? No, she’s not right. I’m fine. I hadn’t been wounded by love; it wasn’t even love. It was all pretend.
“You weren’t pretending, Vox. You were falling in love.” I stared at my reflection in the mirror. Wounded by love. Why did that phrase seem familiar?
This always happens. You sit down to concentrate on the scry spell, and your brain starts to race. I knew from experience that it would settle down soon. I rested my head against the bed and closed my eyes, trying to clear my mind.
Wounded by love. Who had said that? Someone said— Wisdom, the old woman in the alley who had been part of Even’s psyche before the curse. She said I’d been wounded and not to seek vengeance. But she was talking about Neryssa from back home, not Marilye. I hadn’t even met Marilye when Wisdom said that.
I realized I’d been staring at my reflection in the mirror. “You’ve been spending all this energy to find Marilye – why? Let’s say you’re successful tonight, and you find Marilye, what then?”
Riksah came in and rubbed her face against the edge of the mirror. I reached over to stroke her back. “Does that mean you approve of my project?” At my touch the cat flopped over and grabbed my hand. She bit down on my finger, almost breaking the skin. A moment later she grew bored and began to take a bath.
If I find Marilye – a big if, according to Underwood, because not only am I trying to cast a spell past my current abilities, but Marilye is not without her own defenses. It’s possible that I’d already been successful, and Marilye had blocked me.
That would be something – Vox Swift, novice bard casting a 3rd level spell. That would prove that I have some skill, some natural talent. I could know that I’m not wasting my time with Underwood’s lessons.
I suddenly felt kinship with the hordes of amateur singers who sign up for Sheet Night hoping to get noticed, hoping to get their big break. I wanted what they wanted – a little validation, a little encouragement. I wanted someone – no, I wanted Boleian, the best spellcaster I knew, to say, “Nicely done, Vox. That was some fine magic.” If he would just say that to me one time—
Riksah interrupted my thoug
ht by standing on my leg and chirping.
“Why am I sitting on the floor, you ask?” I picked up the cat and plopped her in my lap. “Because I’m single-minded. Or something like that. But,” I sighed, “not tonight. I’m calling it a night, going to bed because in the morning I need to get up early and write those reports for Boleian and Mrs. Morningstar.”
I stood and put Riksah on the bed. “And you, Miss Rik, are welcome to stay.”
Sleep wouldn’t come, however, so I grabbed Table for One, and flipped a dozen pages in. What was it about this book that Dewey liked and that made Farley Edjrest so angry?
“...as easily say that human society has replaced Elven in that respect. The life rituals, vis a vis weddings and births, when contrasted with funereal rites clearly show the stain of human society. To what extent then can humans be blamed for the breakdown of all the other races’ culture mores?
One need only walk down any avenue in Thornbury and see solitary figures hunched over their lunches to understand the ill that besets us. In former times we were a thriving and engaged society, but now the perceptive observer sees a world in decay. The once rarely uttered “Table for one” has become the norm at our restaurants and cafes. Elf, man, and dwarf retreat to an inner world, but it is not a world of their own choosing.
Who then can be blamed for this silent society? Who benefits when we stop talking to each other? Who indeed? This book aims to answer that question.
There was a time when one could easily picture humans as active members of the—”
With a sigh I turned to the back of the book, looking for the index. C, D, E. My finger traced down the entries looking for Edjrest. There were several listed, but all of them were for Edjrest, Miles. So far I hadn’t seen anything for Farley to be chuffed about. He was off the hook, from the looks of it. Was he just being a protective son? But then it’s not like Mile Edjrest made people eat alone, which is the only thing Hawktite seemed to be complaining about.
I flipped to the first entry for Miles Edjrest and read, “Among human financiers Miles Edjrest is a singular case. Pugnacious, litigious (dare I say?), and thin-skinned, even by human standards, Edjrest’s policies single-handedly helped to usher in the decline in Elthari birthrates. Once Edjrest Industries instituted worker dormitories, and demonstrated their success, other magnates quickly followed suit.”
The rest of the page discussed the conditions in these workhouses. I dropped the book to my lap. “Well,” I said to Riksah, “if Professor Hawktite is to be believed, everyone eats alone because there aren’t enough elves in the world.”
I rubbed my eyes and returned to the index, picking another entry. This one listed several page numbers and “Edjrest — Doctrine of.”
“While simplistic to say only, “The gold coin killed traditional families” it is not altogether untrue. As workers’ wages stagnated (see ch. 13 – the Edjrest Doctrine) it became harder for elves to perform their traditional courtship rituals.
Increasingly the larger cities like Thornbury began to cater to single elves, to permanently single elves – something Varana had never seen before. While not alone in this – humans, dwarves, and the other races equally felt the economic pinch after all – the relatively long courtship and gestation cycle of the Elthari female created a crisis in—”
I woke with a start. Hawktite’s dry prose had worked wonders for my tired mind, but once awake I lay in bed thinking over the case – the cases. First, Helena Grimwell. Miles Edjrest would want to know why someone had killed her. At the same time Jesskah Morningstar and her mother wanted to know why the dead girl washed up in their library. That was enough to keep me busy without adding in Even and her missing orphan girl.
In the darkness I felt the weight of Riksah shift on the bed. She curled up by my hip, and I fell asleep again stroking her fine fur.
Chapter 10 A Place on Treefall
I woke to knocking on my front door. Sunlight streamed into the room. I could tell by the angle of the light that it was later than I wanted it to be. The reports had to be done before I left the house – no more procrastination! So if that was cousin Fenril coming around to ask me to take a shift, I’d tell him no as loudly as I could.
But Even was at the door, not Fenril. She looked much as she had the night before. “I told you,” I began, “that it was fine for Riksah to stay the night—”
“I’m not here for Rik.” Even held up a latch key. “Fara Fram.” She pushed past me into the apartment.
It took me a moment to recognize the missing orphan girl’s name. “You found her! Well done. See? You didn’t need my help.” I watched as Even perched on the arm of the couch. “I’ve got these reports to do, and I overslept...” I sighed; Even was clearly not leaving. “Is there something that you need? From me? Me, in particular? Did you think of a new insult?”
“I said I was sorry. No, I’m here because she has an apartment.”
When Even didn’t elaborate I nodded. “Many people do. I assume you must have one?”
“She’s an orphan. She doesn’t need a place to stay – a second place to stay.”
“I can think of a hundred reasons why a young woman would want her own place. Can’t you?”
“Not this girl, Vox.” Even shook her head as she went on. “You don’t know her. She’s quiet, plain, mousey.”
“Then you should have no trouble talking with her on your own.” I moved toward the bedroom. “I told you I’ve got these reports to do.” I raised my voice as I changed clothes. “We’ve got another murder. We’re trying to figure out who killed her and why.”
I leafed through my hanging shirts, ignoring the ones on the far end. They were old, worn, ready to be thrown away. I compared my small closet to the stuffed dressing room that Helena and her sister had shared. Stage clothes alone must cost a ton of gold, not to mention the makeup and shoes. I paused. Makeup. That reminded me of something. Makeup. Had Farley Edjrest said something about it in the dressing room? We talked about Helena’s clothes; I remember that…
“Vox,” Even’s voice told me she was right behind me. “It’s a lot to ask, I know. I just – I could use a hand. Please?” Her hand reached past me. “The green stripe, I think. Green brings out your eyes.” She handed me the shirt.
“What do you think you’ll find?” I searched her face. People can say I’ve changed, but this was a different Even than the one I knew. She was unsure, deferential almost. “Why are you frightened?” I whispered.
“I don’t know, and that frightens me more.” We stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. “I can find anyone, Vox – my locate spell, it doesn’t miss. But I can’t find Fara.”
“You think she’s dead.”
“She can’t be. She’s just a child. She’s got her whole life.”
I slipped on the shirt. I hadn’t worn it in a while, and Even was right – I looked good in it. “If she’s not dead, but you can’t find her, than she’s hiding. Or someone’s hiding her.”
“What’s this?” Even was staring at my scrying mirror.
“Oh, picked that up at a junk shop. I haven’t had a chance to hang it.” I grabbed my shoes in one hand and Even’s arm in the other. “Let’s go. I don’t have a whole lot of time to be going all over Thornbury with you.”
“It’s a nice mirror.” She stepped closer. “Pretty ornate for you. Not really your taste now, is it?”
“Caught my eye. Price was right.” I shrugged. “I needed a mirror.” I put on my shoes. “A little wisdom,” I purposefully emphasized the word, “might make you less suspicious – especially of your friends and the furnishings they choose to buy.”
She took the bait. “I told you about the curse in confidence, Vox Swift! Now you go blabbing about it like it’s the most common thing in the world for a woman to have her wisdom stripped away. Don’t walk away from me!” Even followed me into the living room where I picked up Riksah.
“If we’re going to go to the girl’s apartment, let’s go.�
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“That’s the thing.” Even leaned on the jamb of the bedroom door.
“What’s the thing? Come on; I have reports to write, people to see.” I wondered if Dewey might have any information for me. He could uncover a lot in 24 hours, especially if he was fueled by ten silver worth of discount doughnuts.
“I don’t know where the apartment is. I have the key, but—”
I dropped the cat. “You don’t know where the apartment is.”
“Yes, I said that already, Vox. I’ve narrowed it down. Some of the children said they saw her heading south on Treefall last week. She was with a man they didn’t recognize.”
“How long has she been missing?”
“She finished with her class on Friday. She wasn’t at service on Sunday.”
“Two days and the nuns are up in arms? An 18 year old girl tasting freedom for the first time? Give her a few days, eh Even? I said it before, and I’ll say it again: she’s sowing a few seeds, nothing more.”
“Treefall is mostly family dwellings – only a few apartment houses. I’ve already scoped the area. Her place is likely one of three buildings.” This all came out in one breath.
“I’ll help you,” I said. “Calm down, Even. I said I’d help.” I grabbed my jacket and checked the inside pocket for my notebook. “Alright you two, let’s go break up an orphan girl’s little party.” I held the door for first Even and then Riksah to exit.
We headed west on Jackton. The sun shone in a pale blue sky. “The city is always on her best behavior when I’m with you, Even. Why is that?”
“Dunno.”
Short answers are not Even’s default. I glanced at her as we walked. Her fists were tight, and she scanned the people in front of us. Remembering the first time I’d walked with Even Weymoor, remembering that she’d magicked an image of herself to decoy me away from Marilye’s house, I tapped her lightly on the shoulder.
“It’s really me, Vox. Why would I set an image? I asked you to come.”
“Why do you do anything? You are inscrutable.”