Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  “What could you have done, child?” Marie patted her hand again. “It was his time. Indeed, I wondered at how quickly you were able to leave your school. Did the doctor send a telegram, then? But you have been in the custom of visiting here, so perhaps they made an exception for you. He did enjoy your visits, my dear.”

  Ardhuin felt the smile tremble on her face. “I enjoyed them too.” Knowing that she could escape to Peran had helped to fend off the tedium and humiliation of school.

  “That must be why he left the house to you in such a strange way,” Marie said, pouring another cup of tea with an austere expression. “He wanted you to always have it. It would have been much more practical, and kind, to allow you to sell it. Men must have some lure to even notice a girl, sad as it is, and if beauty is lacking, money will substitute. Although I have often thought your figure is quite charming, or could be if you would dress to show it to advantage. If you could afford to dress more fashionably, it would improve your chances.”

  Ardhuin felt her face heat with a combination of shame and anger. “I would rather have Peran,” she said in a stifled voice. “I could live here. Alone.” She had never enjoyed being noticed, and she would not mind being plain if other people would stop mentioning it to her. She loathed fashion with the same intensity as her mother loved it. It was Ardhuin’s determined resistance, not a lack of funds, that kept her wardrobe out of style.

  Marie uttered a shocked gasp. “At your age? Your parents would never allow it.” Her expression swiftly changed to one of puzzlement. “What is your age, now? I would have thought it time and past for you to be done with your education, and you won’t meet anyone with your nose in a book.” She sniffed. Marie had not approved of the encouragement her great-uncle had given to her studious interests. If she had known he had been teaching her magic, she would have been horrified.

  “My mother and father wished me to remain at the seminary until their return from the Naipon Archipelago,” Ardhuin sighed. “My brothers are all off on their own business and no one is at home now. It was easier to have me stay there, since Maman intends to visit friends in Bretagne after their voyage. If I went to Atlantea, I would just have to come back again.”

  If only there were some way she could stay in Atlantea. Her mother’s ‘visits to friends’ would involve far too much socializing. Parties. Dancing. Ardhuin shuddered. Even the thought of it made her feel ill. Uncomfortable clothes, her mother fussing and worrying to no purpose, and then being forced to endure the discreet stares of those present. Taller than many of the men, topped with a head of flaming red hair, and clumsy in the bargain, and her mother still could not understand why she was hardly ever asked to dance. It was pure torment.

  Marie made a tsking sound. “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped now.” She glanced at the big kitchen clock and rose stiffly from her chair. “The coach will be here any minute now. Are you ready?”

  The funeral was sparsely attended, only partly due to the cold, raw weather. The doctor was present, as was the lawyer who had drawn up his will, but Ardhuin was the only member of the family. That was not considered worthy of comment. Her great-uncle had treated Ardhuin like his daughter, and everyone else was either already dead or too far away.

  Besides, she was his heir. Everyone knew he had left Peran to her—that was the easy part. If she had any questions, the lawyer could answer them for her. They did not know she had also inherited his magical possessions and obligations, and there was no one she could confide in to even know if they were real.

  He’d only mentioned it once. “I have an old obligation to the Mage Guardians. Since you are my heir-magical, they may call on you when I am gone.” He had said little more in response to her questions, only that they were mages from every country of the Allies and sworn to the defense of Aerope. They had been instrumental in the victory of the terrible Mage War. He rarely spoke of his part in the War, so she knew it was important when he did. Ardhuin had never heard of the Mage Guardians before, but if what he had told her was true they would naturally be a secretive group.

  Marie’s description of her great-uncle’s fevered words worried her. If someone was seeking Oron, they might be one of these Mage Guardians. She had promised him…but how would she convince them she was the heir of Oron?

  Then again, perhaps he had been imagining things. Delirious, frail, had he become confused? Remembering some earlier time? She had no way of knowing. No one from this mysterious group had contacted her. It was entirely possible they had ceased to exist, if they had ever existed at all.

  A cart drawn by an old, shaggy horse was waiting outside the house when they returned from the funeral.

  “The cart is here already? I had not thought we were so late,” Marie fretted.

  “You are packed, are you not?” asked Ardhuin.

  “Well, yes, but I had not finished putting the covers on the furniture, or emptying the larder, or….” Marie took her duties very seriously.

  “But the arrangements—and your granddaughter is expecting you! I can finish here, and leave tomorrow.” One more blessed day of freedom.

  Marie shook her head resolutely. “I cannot leave you here by yourself. The driver will just have to come back, that’s all.”

  “But I won’t be alone,” Ardhuin said, suddenly remembering. “Rinaud and his wife are still here, and won’t be leaving for at least a week.”

  Marie glanced at the cart, and then at Ardhuin, wavering. “That’s true. I did not remember. Oh, but I still don’t like it. The cottage is outside the walls, after all.”

  It took a great deal of persuasion and repeated promises to ask the Rinauds to stay in the house with her and to lock all the doors before retiring, but she finally managed to convince Marie to leave.

  Ardhuin spent the rest of the afternoon finishing the chores Marie had not completed. The house was wonderfully quiet. If only she could stay like this—alone and undisturbed. She could spend hours in the library and no one would complain or say too much reading would make her squint. She could practice her magic. But no, they would not let her do it.

  She went down to the kitchen to finish the last of the cleaning. In the fading light of the setting sun she saw an envelope propped against the butter crock. Frowning, she picked it up, wondering at the weight of it. Only she and the servants could have gone through the wards without assistance. When had it been left?

  She took out the letter. In shaky handwriting, Rinaud explained they would be leaving early, as a friend of Madame Rinaud had offered to take them in her carriage all the way to Dinan, and would they be so kind as to arrange with the carter to take their luggage? In the envelope were two faded guilder notes and a key.

  Panic spurred her to sudden action. Ardhuin ran out the kitchen door into the bitter cold, following the deep footprints in the snow left by Rinaud. She could barely see the cottage in the darkness once she left the walled garden. Slipping and stumbling, her teeth chattering, she hurried down the road and with stiff hands unlocked the door. The tiny cottage was empty except for a few pieces of old furniture and a pile of carefully marked luggage.

  They were, as she had feared, gone. Shivering, Ardhuin relocked the door and went back to the house. What was she going to do? Rinaud must have left the letter when they were at the funeral, or he would have spoken to them himself. Not only was it dark, she didn’t have a horse and it was too cold and too far to walk to town. Nobody knew she was all alone, or would even look for her.

  Nobody knew. She stumbled on something hidden in the snow, and fell into a snow-covered pile of leaves. With difficulty, she regained her feet, wishing the garden had not been so neglected. The paths were overgrown, and the snow just made it worse. Brushing snow and dead leaves from her skirt, she carefully locked the kitchen door behind her.

  A daring thought; a frightening thought, that had made her lose her balance. If no one knew she was alone in the house, they wouldn’t make her leave. She lit the kitchen fire and considered. What would
she do for food? There was a little left, but not much. Plenty of coal and firewood in the cellars, fortunately. And what tale would she tell the carter when he returned as Marie had instructed him? Ah, a misunderstanding! He was not to come for her, but for the luggage. And hadn’t Marie mentioned sending him to fetch orders from the butcher and the baker when Rinaud was ill and couldn’t go himself?

  She would have to talk to the carter. Perhaps even write it out and practice it, so she wouldn’t get flustered. He would know she was staying at the house, and might—no, would tell others. This was a small town after all, and gossip a prized commodity. She had overheard some of that gossip, about her. The kindest versions described her as plain and odd, and the superstitious considered red hair unlucky or worse. Would it really seem so strange if she decided to stay here by herself? They would probably think she was just eccentric, like her great-uncle.

  The seminary…she would write to the headmistress. Something vague about the difficulties caused by her great-uncle’s sudden illness, and that she needed to stay a while longer. And to send any letters to her here; that would give her enough warning when her mother returned. There was always the risk that the headmistress might learn of her great-uncle's death from other sources and wonder what was keeping her. Perhaps, then, she could say there were difficulties with her inheritance?

  A heady wave of delight washed over her worries and fears. There would be trouble later, unless she was very lucky. But for now…she had freedom.

  Dominic made his way up the stone stairs with reluctance, dreading his destination. He knocked on the heavy wood door.

  “Come in, come in!” said a testy voice, and Dominic hastened to open the door. He did not want Professor Botrel to become impatient with him. Botrel was his last hope.

  “Ah. Kermarec. Now, why did I want to see you?” Botrel’s shaggy white eyebrows piled like thunderclouds on his forehead.

  “You mentioned you had something to give me.” Dominic couldn’t help glancing at the impressive piles of books and papers that were stacked everywhere, even the floor. He hoped the good professor would not have to search for whatever it was.

  “Oh yes. By the way, I have seen the results of the final examinations.” The white eyebrows lifted, and Botrel looked at him over the rims of his eyeglasses. “It should not be a surprise to you, or anyone else, that you do not have the necessary qualifications to be a scholar.”

  He had failed. No degree, no money, no prospects.

  Botrel made an exasperated noise, searching through his pockets and then the drawers of his desk. “Don’t stand there looking like you’ve been stabbed. Now where did I put it? You passed. Barely. Aha!” He pulled out a folded letter from his tobacco pouch, shaking a few flakes free. “I hope you do not object to the odor. I wanted to be sure I remembered it, you see, and I have not yet reached the point of forgetting my pipe.” He gave his gentle, elfin smile.

  Dominic took the letter and readjusted his ideas. He had not failed. Was this perhaps an offer of employment, then?

  “I took the liberty of showing that imaginary expedition you wrote to Monsieur Sambin,” Professor Botrel continued, waving the pipe he was filling and scattering more flakes of tobacco over his desk. “He was quite impressed. Asked me to pass on those comments to you. How did you know about camelard hair, eh?”

  Dominic shifted his attention from the letter, which seemed to be a literary critique, to attempt to deal with this new inquiry. Botrel was famous for his apparent non sequiturs and random questions, but more observant students had noticed his chaotic discourse usually had a hidden thread connecting the whole in a subtle way. It made conversation with him fascinating but exhausting.

  “A friend of mine is acquainted with the biologist who accompanied the latest expedition to the Atlantean highlands, and introduced me. He told me they had great difficulty packing the more delicate specimens until their trail guide suggested using the hair shed by their pack animals.”

  “Ah.” Botrel puffed happily at his pipe. “Why, pray, were you desirous of an introduction to a biologist? And that one in particular? I don’t recall you at any of the literary gatherings, or even expressing an interest in meeting an author.”

  Dominic started to sweat. This discussion was taking a disquieting turn, and nothing made sense. Why should this M. Sambin have any interest in him or his scribbled tale? Why was that name familiar?

  Then he remembered. Remembered where he had read about the Atlantean expedition, and where he had seen the name Sambin before.

  “You showed my imaginary expedition to the editor of The Family Museum?” he asked, stunned. And Sambin had been impressed!

  “Oh yes. I think you may have discovered a new field, my boy. Don’t listen to those crotchety academics!” Botrel swirled the cloud of smoke about his head with wild gestures. “Universities are little more than sedimentary layers, rich with fossils. Couldn’t think of a new idea if their very lives depended on it—or recognize one, either. Look at all the trouble I’ve had! Just because I am interested in literature that isn’t fifty years old! It doesn’t have to age to be of value, like wine. Take The Little Chef, for example. Everybody can quote from it, recognize the songs, and it’s still being performed today. It’s a part of our culture and the fools refuse to see it! Bah!” He stabbed his pipe stem at Dominic, scowling. “They call it ‘popular’ in the same manner a doctor would say ‘diseased.’ It was popular because it spoke to all of us!”

  “Pastry competitions, sir?” Dominic asked.

  Botrel sat back in his chair, his eyes hooded. “Food. Good food, not the kind that just keeps you alive for a few hours. It was written during the Mage War, you see. It was a part of it. I was still living in Fougéres when the Fire Rain destroyed the city. We only got out by following a sewerman through the tunnels. We couldn’t see him or each other, it was so dark. He sang the ‘Cherry Tart with Almonds’ song, and we followed the sound of his voice. Never did find out what happened to him….” Botrel stared into the distance for a moment, then shook himself. “But that’s all over with now. The letter…oh, you have it there. Have you read it?”

  Dominic skimmed the letter’s contents as quickly as he could. The account was interesting, but a trifle dry for fiction, said M. Sambin. More attention paid to the personalities and less to the technical details would make the piece of greater interest to The Family Museum’s readers.

  “He does not appear to like it,” Dominic faltered, to the glowering face of Professor Botrel.

  “I assure you if he did not like it he would not have taken the trouble to write to you,” the professor growled. “Blockhead! He is giving you advice! Now here is my advice to you, and at least pretend to pay attention to it. Follow what makes you forget.” Botrel shook his head, chuckling. “Perhaps I should phrase that in a more felicitous manner. There are things that will not let you rest, and when you follow them you forget all else. You sought out a biologist. Why? You do not, I believe, have an interest in the study of biology. Or in geology, but you paid a visit to Professor Sharmkov. My wife and his are great friends,” Botrel explained, seeing Dominic’s look of shock, “and they love to gossip.”

  “I was merely curious—” Dominic began.

  Botrel nodded so vigorously his pipe fell out. “Exactly! And according to Sharmkov, you asked intelligent questions. I will venture to guess that you made use of his answers in your tale there, eh? The exploration of the caves? Fascinating, my boy. Now. You, and the examining committee, are agreed that a scholar’s life is not in your future. That,” he said, tapping the letter Dominic still held, “is your future.”

  “I am afraid my need of employment is more urgent than Monsieur Sambin can meet,” Dominic said. “I value your advice, but I will need time to act upon it.” Phillipe was leaving in less than a week, and he could not afford their lodgings on his own. If he ruthlessly cut back on any luxuries, he could eat for a month, but no more.

  He stared. Botrel was making slow, da
ncing motions with his arms, his eyes closed and his face screwed up in an effort of thought. “This morning, eggs for breakfast, toast burnt, Pierre, my friend writes…time to leave, AH!” He leaped from his chair, startling Dominic into nearly knocking over the coat rack. Dominic regained his balance and stared at his professor. Botrel gave another subtle smile. “My wife has a way of poaching eggs with butter. Absolutely delicious, and I tend not to notice much else when they are in front of me. I don’t recall the details, mind, but it seems her friend is in desperate need of a tutor. Which is something you can do and,” he dropped back into his seat and beamed at Dominic, “it would give you time to write.”

  Going back into the house through the kitchen, Ardhuin rummaged through the larder and settled on a slice of dried-apple pie and some cheese, which she took with her in a napkin. She ate as she went back upstairs, smiling when she saw a fallen crumb gently drift away on the floor in obedience to the cleaning spell. Her great-uncle had had a curiously practical streak at times.

  She opened the carved double doors of the library, first wandering to the great window that looked down on the rose garden and admiring the view. So far her plan was working quite well. She had arranged for weekly delivery of food via the carter, and with the quarterly payment from the small fund her great-uncle had set up for her she could live, not lavishly, but well enough.

  She sighed happily. No one to criticize her taste in reading, or informal eating habits, or pester her to keep her hair up. It always came down anyway, so what was the point? The only thing that kept her from complete enjoyment was her great-uncle’s absence.

  Selecting an old, loosely bound volume from the shelves, Ardhuin sat down at the great desk. She read for some time, nibbling cheese, with her feet propped up on the desk, happily imagining her teachers’ shock if they could see her in such an improper pose. Her great-uncle had never been shocked. That, and his great height, caused her to adore him at an early age. When he called her ‘petite,’ it was true. Most men had to look up at her, and it was very tiresome.